THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


*0  Pacific  Av«i 

LONG  BEACH; 
CALIFORNIA  ! 


Love  for  an  Hour 
Is  Love  Forever 


New  York 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 

BY 
ROBERT   BONNER'S   SONS 

All  Rights  Reserved 


LH 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGP 

I.    "  WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL  AIR t" i 

II.    "  TAKE  CARE,  MY  LAD,  TAKE  CARE!  " 14 

III.    THE  SQUIRE  AND  THE  SPINNER 28 

VI.    MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE 46 

V.    A  HAPPY  HOUR 65 

VI.    "  IT  HAS  TO  BE  BORNE  " 84 

VII.    THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH 98 

VIII.    LOVE'S  DESPAIR 117 

IX.    LOVE  TIED  IN  A  KNOT 139 

X.  AT  LAST  GOD  BRINGS  THE  TARDY  BLESSING.  ...  160 

XI.    FORTUNATE  GOLD  AND  SORROWFUL  LOVE 183 

XII.    HOPE  AND  Two  SAD  WOMEN 204 

XIII.  MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE 229 

XIV.  "THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE." 251 

XV.    IN  SEARCH  OF  LOVE 272 

XVI.  AND  Now  LOVE  SANG!...                                    ..  284 


2061823 


LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR  IS  LOVE 
FOREVER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"WHO    RIDES    BY    WITH    ROYAL   AIR?" 
"  Who  rides  by  with  royal  air?  " 

"  Though  fate  may  frown,  and  death  may  sever, 
Love  for  an  hour  is  love  forever." 

FJETWEEN  the  leaves  of  an  old  romance  I  found 
JL)  one  day  the  shadow  of  a  lily  and  a  song.  The  lily 
grew  forty  years  ago,  the  song  was  sung  as  it  was  gath- 
ered. The  flower  is  nearly  dust,  the  words  have  nearly 
faded  away,  but  the  story  they  keep  is  unforgotten. 
For  in  becoming  "  Life  "  it  made  itself  eternal. 

Before  the  flower  bloomed,  before  the  song  had  found 
a  voice,  Francesca  Atherton  had  dreamed  of  love,  as 
saints  dream  of  heaven — wonderful,  mystical,  far  off — 
an  object  both  of  fervent  desire  and  of  wistful  fear  and 
uncertainty.  For  her  young  life  had  been  peopled  from 
noble  books,  and  it  was  in  their  pages  she  had  met  her 
friends  and  companions — men,  romantically  honorable 
and  loyal ;  women,  faithful  in  love,  even  unto  death — 


2  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

both  alike  doing  nobly  with  this  life,  because  they  held 
it  as  the  gage  for  life  eternal. 

And  Francesca  believed  these  shadowy  forms  to  be 
portraits  of  the  people  whom  she  would  one  day  meet  in 
the  world.  No  one  told  her  differently.  Her  aunt — the 
still  beautiful  Loida  Vyner — held  the  same  opinion  ;  for 
she  had  only  made  little  holiday  visits  into  the  world, 
and  she  was  quite  ignorant  of  all  that  was  mean  or  self- 
ish in  the  pomps  and  vanities  she  took  no  part  in. 
Gentle  and  romantic,  carrying  in  her  heart  the  "  hush  " 
of  a  great  sorrow,  Miss  Vyner  had  brought  up  her 
motherless  niece  in  that  sweet,  pious  simplicity  which 
makes  a  woman  not  only  charming  in  good  fortune  but 
patient  and  strong  in  the  days  of  calamity. 

In  this  exquisite  schooling  of  a  young  soul  Squire 
Atherton  had  little  part.  He  distrusted  himself  entirely 
where  Francesca  was  concerned.  He  would  have  taken 
a  son  to  the  kennels  and  the  ferret  hutches,  made  him 
wise  in  stable  lore,  and  taught  him  all  the  mysteries  of 
woodcraft.  The  little  maid,  even  at  nine  years  old, 
puzzled  him.  Her  eyes,  full  of  solemn  wonder,  gave 
him  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  incompetency.  Her 
liand  had  but  to  clasp  his  finger,  and  he  felt  under  an 
irresistible  authority.'  And  when  her  small  face  lay 
against  his  large,  sunbrowned  cheek,  he  had  neither 
wish  nor  will  of  his  own,  to  speak  of. 

"  She  is  just  a  little  lady!  God  love  her! "  he  said  to 
his  sister-in-law,  "  and  she  must  have  a  lady  to  guide 
her.  As  for  me,  Loida,  thou  knows,  I  would  lay  my 
hands  under  her  feet."  And  Loida,  looking  up  at  the 
man  standing  firm  as  an  oak  before  her — massive,  tall, 
tough,  fearless — felt  all  the  wonderful  surrender  in  this 


•*WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL  AIR?"         3 

free  expression  of  love,  and  of  love's  service — "/  would 
lay  my  hands  tinder  her  feet." 

If  this  was  the  squire's  feeling  when  Francesca  was 
nine  years  old,  when  she  was  nineteen  it  was  ten  years 
stronger.  For  he  had  then  begun  to  realize  that  his 
child  had  become  a  woman,  and  that  the  high  park 
walls  of  Atherton  Court  would  not  much  longer  keep 
away  from  her  whatever  Fate  was  waiting. 

"  And  I'll  tell  thee  what,  Loida,"  he  said  one  day,  as 
they  sat  talking,  "if  anything  goes  wrong  with  Fran- 
cesca, the  world  will  be  just  four  bare  walls  to  me." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
leaded  sashes  were  open,  and  a  robin-redbreast,  singing 
on  an  ivy  branch,  was  almost  in  the  room.  The  squire 
chirruped  to  the  bird,  but  kept  his  eyes  upon  his  daugh- 
ter. She  was  coming  slowly  up  the  low  stone  steps  of 
the  terrace,  lifting  slightly  her  long  white  dress  with  one 
hand,  and  scattering  wheat  with  the  other  to  the  many 
colored  pigeons,  who  paced  and  plumed  and  bridled 
their  opal  necks,  and  "  coo,  coo,  coo'd "  around  her 
feet. 

He  called  to  her,  because  he  wished  to  hear  her 
voice ;  and  she  let  the  wheat  fall  from  her  hand  and 
lifted  her  hat  with  a  joyous  upward  movement. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Francesca  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  went  to  the  south  walls,  to  ask  the  apricots  if  they 
were  ripe.  And  one — like  roses  and  amber — told  me 
to  try  it." 

"  Was  it  good,  dearie  ? " 

"  It  was  like  sunshine  and  wine  and  musk-roses  and 
—one  of  your  kisses,  dear  father."  She  was  by  this 
time  at  the  open  window,  and  she  sent  the  compliment 


4  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

straight  to  his  heart,  with  a  smile  as  ravishing  as  love 
and  beauty  could  make  it. 

"  Eh!  but  thy  words  are  like  music.  I  don't  wonder 
the  very  birds  love  to  hear  them.  Robin  was  singing  till 
you  came ;  now,  like  a  wise  bird,  he  is  listening  to  thee." 

"  I  have  just  been  listening  to  the  starlings.  They 
have  been  holding  a  large  public  meeting.  Do  you 
think,  father,  that  they  are  addicted  to  politics  f  No, 
it  must  have  been  a  religious  meeting.  It  was  extremely 
orderly.  There  is  a  starling  who  lives  in  the  east  gable ; 
he  is  quite  a  religious  bird.  I  have  often  seen  him  on 
the  topmost  stone  of  the  highest  chimney  gaze  on  the 
green  earth  and  up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  then  clap  his 
wings  softly,  to  the  most  joyful  song  you  can  imagine. 
He  was  singing  to  God,  I  am  sure  he  was." 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder,  dearie." 

"  Father,  I  walked  through  the  park  to  the  great 
gates.  And  I  saw  two  gentlemen  go  past  them.  One 
was  old,  and  one  was  young;  that  is,  one  was  much 
older  than  the  other;  and  they  looked  so  happy,  out 
there,  in  the  world.  I  wished  I  was  a  man — even  an 
old  man — if  I  could  only  go  riding  up  and  down,  as  my 
fancy  led  me." 

"I'll  warrant  it  was  their  business,  and  not  their 
fancy,  that  led  them  into  this  bit  of  country,  Francesca. 
Why-a!  They  be  coming  here,  my  little  lady.  Go 
tell  your  Aunt  Loida.  They  will  need  a  bite  and  sup, 
whoever  they  be." 

And  she  heard,  as  she  went  away,  the  trample  of 
horses'  feet,  and  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  and  that 
little  flurry  of  formal  welcome  that  marks  the  unex- 
pected yet  not  unwelcome  visitor.  For  visitors  were 


"WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL  AIR?"         5 

rare  at  Atherton  Court,  and  the  squire  was  glad  to  talk 
to  those  who  brought  to  him  for  awhile  the  atmosphere 
of  the  busy  world. 

To  Francesca  their  coming  was  also  a  little  event. 
She  felt  a  kind  of  personal  interest  in  these  strangers, 
she  had  seen  them  before  any  one  in  the  house ;  and 
she  was  pleased  when  the  ostler  took  away  their  horses. 

"They  are  going  to  stay  to  dinner,"  she  mentally 
commented,  "and  I  wonder  what  I  shall  put  on!"  It 
was  a  delightful  uncertainty  to  her ;  she  opened  first  one 
and  then  another  of  the  wide  drawers  in  her  ambry ; 
and  stood  looking  down  at  their  contents.  The  scent 
of  lavender  stole  softly  out  of  them,  and  mingled  with 
the  sweet  air  of  the  room.  And  the  sunshine  fell  on 
several  pale-colored  gowns,  pink  and  amber,  and  blue 
and  white.  She  could  not  tell  which  one  was  the  pret- 
tiest, but  it  was  quite  an  important  question  to  settle ; 
because  a  stranger  was  such  a  rarity.  One  of  these 
might  be  a  lord  or  a  lover ;  might  be  the  prince  of  all 
her  fairylike  love-dreams. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  a  girl's  bright  glance  can 
see  a  great  deal ;  and  Francesca  in  a  moment's  space, 
from  out  of  the  green  shadows  in  which  she  stood,  had 
noticed  the  tall,  graceful  man  who  held  his  bridle  so 
lightly,  and  who  turned  a  handsome,  dark  face  toward 
the  dim  beech  alley,  through  which  he  must  have  seen 
her  sauntering. 

The  dresses,  crisp  and  fresh  with  the  clear  starching 
now  gone  out  of  use,  lay  across  the  snowy  counterpane. 
She  considered  their  claims  with  a  divided  heart ;  none 
pleased  her  above  all  others.  "  I  shall  have  to  shut  my 
eyes  and  take  what  fortune  sends  me,"  she  said,  with 


6  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

a  low  laugh  of  satisfaction.  "  We  have  to  do  that  about 
many  other  things,  I  am  sure." 

Then  she  lifted  her  watch,  and  saw  that  it  was  only 
a  little  after  eleven.  "  And  dinner  will  not  be  served 
until  two — perhaps  until  half -past  two ;  for  Ann  Pierson 
will  have  to  make  a  syllabub,  of  course.  She  thinks 
visitors  come  to  Atherton  to  eat  her  syllabubs." 

This  primitive  toilet  divination  was  obviated  by  the 
decision  of  Aunt  Loida,  who  immediately  on  entering 
the  room  perceived  the  dilemma,  and  met  it. 

"  I  would  wear  the  pink  muslin,  Frances,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  sheerer  and  smarter ;  and  you  can  go  to  the  gar- 
den when  you  are  dressed,  and  get  some  myrtle-leaves 
and  white  clematis.  And  black  lace  mitts,  my  dear. 
Be  sure  of  the  black  lace  mitts!  They  give  an  air  of 
modesty  to  a  young  girl.  They  say  to  a  gentleman : 
'  The  tips  of  my  fingers  only,  sir.' " 

Francesca  looked,  with  a  smile,  at  the  tips  of  her  fin- 
gers, and  said : 

"  If  you  please,  aunt,  for  whom  am  I  to  wear  pink 
muslin,  and  white  clematis,  and  the  limiting  black 
mitts  ?  " 

"  Our  visitors  are  Mr.  Stephen  Leigh  and  his  son." 

"  I  never  heard  of  them  before.  Did  you  ?  I  hope 
they  have  not  come  about  money.  Every  one  now 
seems  to  come  about  money." 

"  They  are  very  rich,  and  we  owe  them  nothing.  Mr. 
Leigh  is  a  loom-lord.  He  lives  to  make  woolen  cloth. 
But  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  younger  man  is 
extremely  handsome,  and,  and — I  am  sure,  Frances, 
you  will  be  careful.  I  mean,  dear — you  will  not  let 
him  make  any  impression — you  know  what  I  mean." 


"WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL   AIR?"         7 

"  Indeed,  Aunt  Loida,  I  do  not  know  what  you 
mean." 

"  Young  people  sometimes  fancy  they  have  fallen  in 
love,  when  they  have  not." 

"  Why  should  you  warn  me  about  falling  in  love  ? 
Have  I  ever  done  such  a  thing?  Is  it  a  common  trans- 
gression of  mine?  How  many  opportunities  have  I 
had  to  be  so  imprudent  ?  Is  '  imprudent '  the  word  ? 
Or  should  I  use  a  stronger  one  ? " 

"  I  see  that  I  have  been  unwise  in  speaking  to  you, 
Francesca." 

"  You  should  not  have  spoken  on  this  subject.  I  am 
nearly  nineteen  years  old,  Aunt  Loida." 

"It  is  such  an  important  subject!  O  Francesca, 
such  a  fateful  subject !  It  makes  or  mars  human  lives 
in  a  few  moments.  I  am  '  one  of  those  who  know,'  my 
dear." 

Miss  Vyner's  still  face  flushed,  and  she  dropped  her 
eyes  upon  her  gray  silk  dress  and  smoothed  out  a  fanci- 
ful crease. 

It  was  the  first  approach  to  confidence  ever  given, 
and  Francesca  went  to  her  aunt's  side  and  took  her 
hand.  Some  vague  tradition  of  Loida  Vyner's  disap- 
pointment in  love  had  floated  into  her  consciousness 
almost  imperceptibly,  but  the  idea  had  always  been 
pale,  remote,  and  without  much  meaning.  At  this  mo- 
ment she  had  a  revelation  that  troubled  and  restrained 
her,  and  a  spell  of  sadness  fell  between  the  two  women. 

It  lingered  in  the  room  after  Miss  Vyner  had  left  it, 
and  Francesca  was  a  little  impatient  of  the  feeling.  She 
began  to  sing  softly,  but  ere  she  was  aware  her  voice 
had  slipped  into  a  monotonous  air,  full  of  old  world  sad* 


8  LOVE  f-'OK  AN  HOUR. 

ness.  Then  she  broke  it  off  suddenly,  and,  in  a  quiet 
hurry,  finished  her  toilet.  For  once  she  forgot  to  take 
a  little  pleasure  in  her  own  beauty — to  watch  in  the  two 
long  mirrors  the  graceful  sweep  of  pink  muslin  across 
the  dark  oak  floor ;  to  notice  the  gleam  of  her  white 
arms  and  throat ;  the  heavy  braids  of  her  nut-brown 
hair;  the  rose-like  tints  of  her  face,  and  the  sparkling 
lights  of  her  large  gray  eyes.  But  it  was  only  one 
o'clock,  and  she  could  go  to  the  garden  and  get  flow- 
ers, and  do  all  these  things  in  that  final  five  minutes  be- 
fore dinner. 

As  she  passed  through  the  hall,  she  heard  her  father 
talking.  His  voice  had  an  argumentative  ring ;  it  was 
clear  and  positive. 

"  Now  I  know  what  these  people  have  come  for,"  she 
said  to  herself ;  "  politics.  I  dare  say  this  Stephen  Leigh 
is  a  Radical,  for  father  never  talks  that  way  but  when 
somebody  is  saying  something  against  the  Conservative 
government."  As  soon  as  she  had  settled  the  visit  upon 
a  political  basis,  her  spirits  rose ;  the  decision  put  away 
some  unacknowledged  money  care. 

With  a  light  step  she  went  down  the  terrace  into  the 
pleasant  stretch  of  odorous  shrubs  and  blossoming 
flowers.  Here  there  were  all  kinds  of  shady  alleys; 
rose  hedges  shut  in  some,  and  the  laburnums'  rain  of 
gold  and  the  climbing  honeysuckle  others ;  and  lower 
down  toward  the  steps  of  the  second  terrace  there  was 
a  thick  screen  of  white  clematis.  It  covered  also  a 
little  summer-house  overlooking  the  steps  and  the  hilly 
sward  in  which  they  were  set ;  and  lower  down,  the 
place  of  summer  fruits.  The  desire  to  enter  the  summer- 
house  was  irresistible.  It  was  so  cool,  and  then  the 


"WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL  AIR?"         g 

light  was  so  green  there,  and  her  pink  dress  made  such 
a  charming  glow  in  its  dim  shadow.  She  spread  it  out 
with  an  obvious  childlike  pride  in  the  contrast. 

Oh,  the  stillness!  Oh,  the  sweet  smell  of  growing 
wood ;  of  the  soil ;  of  the  flowers ;  of  the  ripening  fruit ! 
Youth  has  a  sensuous  hunger  for  such  alluring  odors, 
and  Francesca  sat  and  closed  her  eyes,  the  better  to 
enjoy  them.  The  chair  was  her  father's  chair ;  it  was 
large  and  soft ;  the  air  was  the  noontide  air,  it  was 
warm  and  sleepy  ;  her  soul  was  in  the  mood  of  a  truant, 
and  it  slipped  away  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

She  awakened  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  been  sharply 
called.  All  the  lower  space  of  the  fruit  garden  was 
full  of  sweetest  melody : 

"  I  dreamt  that  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls." 

That  was  very  like  what  she  had  been  dreaming.  She 
rose  quickly  to  her  feet,  a  warm  crimson  wave  rushed 
over  her  throat  and  face,  her  eyes  grew  larger  and 
darker,  she  parted  the  clematis  vines  and  looked  through 
them. 

A  young  man  was  slowly  walking  between  the  plum 
and  the  apricot  standards,  and  singing  as  he  walked. 
His  voice  had  magic  in  it.  The  tender,  ringing  tones, 
now  sharp  and  clear,  then  soft  and  lingering,  came  float- 
ing up  the  terrace  and  went  straight  to  her  heart.  She 
had  heard  the  first  verse  of  the  song  in  her  sleep — never 
before — and  the  second  verse  had  an  insinuating  famil- 
iarity she  could  not  resist. 

The  singer  came  slowly  onward,  taking  the  terrace- 
steps  with  a  charming  deliberation.  He  held  an  apri- 
cot, and  he  threw  it  lightly  from  one  hand  to  the  other, 


10  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

making  the  act  as  rhythmical  and  graceful  as  the  melody 
he  sang  to  the  movement.  He  was  bare-headed,  slender 
and  talJ,  and  carried  himself  with  a  royal  air.  As  he 
came  closer,  she  saw  that  he  was  very  handsome ;  that 
his  mouth  was  sweet  and  smiling ;  that  his  clothes  had 
the  gloss  of  fashion.  He  stood  a  moment  on  the  top- 
most step ;  stood  in  the  sunshine  singing,  serenely  glad, 
and  wearing  the  look  of  a  man  who  had  always  lived 
in  the  sunniest  places  of  human  happiness. 

Francesca  would  have  fled,  but  flight  was  now  im- 
possible. She  could  only  tremble  with  fear  and  shame, 
only  reflect  that  he  would  be  sure  to  think  she  had 
come  there  purposely  to  watch  him.  She  forgot  even 
to  sit  down,  and  thus  give  the  idea,  at  least,  of  indiffer- 
ence. Putting  together  the  parted  vines,  she  stood  very 
upright,  facing  the  leafy  entrance.  Her  left  hand  was 
dropped,  her  right  hand  grasped  the  back  of  the  large 
chair.  Pinker  than  her  muslin  gown  was  her  face ;  her 
eyes  shone  like  stars ;  her  manner  expressed  forcibly  the 
confusion  of  a  soul  surprised  in  its  very  citadel. 

For  a  moment  the  singer  and  the  listener  looked 
straight  into  each  other's  eyes.  Something  impelled 
them  to  this  recognizance.  Then  Francesca  said : 

"  I  am  Miss  Atherton." 

And  the  stranger  said : 

"  I  am  Lancelot  Leigh." 

And  she  gave  him  just  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and 
they  went  through  the  garden  together.  And  the  white 
clematis  were  never  gathered,  which  was  a  fortunate 
thing,  for  the  free  flowers  of  the  gadding  vine  hold  no 
love-spell  in  their  wide-open'  cups.  There  was  one  hour 
before  dinner,  and  love  for  an  hour  is  love  forever — if 


"WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL   AIR?"       II 

it  be  true  love.  These  two  souls  had  just  found  each 
other,  and  they  had  so  much  to  say,  and  seemed  to 
choose  such  unmeaning  words  that  any  one  not  of  the 
faculty  of  love  would  have  been  puzzled  at  their  satis- 
faction. A  few  syllables  and  a  glance — a  glance  and  a 
flower — one  step  at  a  time,  and  the  touch  of  their  hands 
— these  simple  vehicles  of  understanding  held  a  meas- 
ureless contentment.  And  when  they  took  the  terraced 
steps  together,  the  tips  of  their  fingers  had  a  language 
all  their  own — mystically  sweet  as  the  influences  of  the 
Pleiades,  mystically  binding  as  the  virtues  of  Orion. 
They  were  talking  of  names  at  the  time,  and  he  said, 
softly : 

"  I  am  called  Lancelot." 

She  answered : 

"  I  am  called  Francesca." 

He  repeated  the  word  slowly — "Francesca! "  and 
every  letter  was  vivid  as  light,  and  the  name  went  to 
his  brain  like  wine. 

What  did  it  matter  to  them  that  they  were  late  to 
dinner,  and  that  the  squire,  with  a  slow  dignity  that 
was  almost  a  reproof,  told  them  so  ?  What  did  it  mat- 
ter that  he  looked  annoyed,  and  Aunt  Loida  anxious, 
and  that  the  conversation  was  confined  to  the  elder 
gentlemen,  and  was  painfully  political.  The  great 
point  was  that  dinner  would  so  soon  be  over,  and  that 
they  must  then  learn  for  the  first  time  how  hard  it  is  to 
spell  the  word  "parting."  Francesca  could  make  no 
attempt  to  do  it.  She  turned  white,  and  remained 
dumb.  Lancelot  touched  her  fingers  again,  and  said, 
"Good-night;"  and,  if  his  eyes  lied  not,  said  many 
sweeter  words. 


12  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Francesca  did  not  doubt  them.  All  of  love,  and  of 
love's  confession  that  sprung  from  their  beautiful  depths, 
she  implicitly  believed.  And,  though  it  was  yet  a  secret 
between  their  happy  souls,  she  was  certain  the  hour  for 
its  translation  into  mortal  language  would  come — would 
surely  come. 

As  soon  as  his  visitors  were  out  of  sight,  the  squire 
gave  way  to  his  natural  temper.  He  turned  sharply 
round,  went  into  his  parlor,  and  filled  a  fresh  "  yard  of 
clay  "  with  his  strongest  tobacco.  Miss  Vyner  let  him 
puff  some  of  his  annoyance  into  smoke  ere  she  asked 
the  irritating  question : 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Rashleigh  ?  You  act 
as  if  you  were  vexed  at  something." 

"  I  am  vexed  at  something.  Whatever  does  thou 
think  of  a  cotton-mill  near  Atherton  ?  " 

"  A  mill !      WThy,  Rashleigh !      Never ! " 

"  That  is  what  brought  Stephen  Leigh  to  my  house. 
He  was  sure  he  could  buy  me  over ;  he  thought  I  would 
sell  him  Atherton  Dingle ;  he  talked  about '  water-power ' 
as  if  water-power  was  God  Almighty." 

"  You  would  not  sell  the  Dingle  ? " 

"  Not  for  gold.  And  nobody  shall  make  gold  out  of 
its  silver  water  and  nodding  bluebells  if  I  can  stop 
them.  Why-a!  there  isn't  a  tree  in  Atherton  would  not 
whisper  '  Shame! '  to  me  if  I  sold  Atherton  Dingle  for  a 
mill  village." 

"  He  must  have  been  a  little  trying  to  you." 

"  He  was  very  trying.  But  thou  may  be  sure  I  gave 
him  some  words  that  had  more  strength  than  grace  in 
them." 

"  I  should  not  wonder  if  you  did." 


" WHO  RIDES  BY  WITH  ROYAL  AIR?"       13 

As  this  moment  Francesca  came  into  the  room,  and 
the  squire,  having  had  a  taste  of  sympathy,  longed  for 
more.  He  turned  to  his  daughter  with  an  air  of  injury : 

"  Whatever  dost  thou  think  brought  the  Leighs  here, 
Francesca?  " 

"  Politics,  I  suppose." 

"My  joy!  Thou  art  wrong  this  time.  They  want 
me  to  sell  the  Dingle." 

He  expected  to  see  her  face  flame  and  to  hear  her 
passionately  protest.  She  only  looked  with  curiosity 
and  interest  in  his  face,  and  so  waited  for  further  infor- 
mation. 

"Yes,  joy!  They  wanted  to  build  a  mill  there — a 
great  ugly  cotton-mill ! " 

"Would  not  that  be  a  good  thing,  father?" 

If  she  had  struck  him,  the  squire  could  scarcely  have 
been  more  angry  and  amazed. 

"  If  thou  hast  no  more  sense  and  feeling  than  to 
speak  in  such  a  way  as  that,  I  had  better  hold  my  peace 
to  thee." 

"  But  mills  make  money,  father,  and  some  of  our 
people  are  very  poor." 

"Poor!  Not  they!  Thou  should  see  the  squalid, 
murmuring  poverty  of  a  mill  village.  The  poor  in  our 
farm  villages  are  decent.  They  don't  live  in  cellars  and 
alleys.  They  have  their  cottages  on  the  fell-side,  and 
a  garden-plot,  and  a  hive  of  bees,  and  a  few  sheep,  and 
they  go  to  church,  and  serve  God,  and  do  their  duty. 
But  if  thou,  Francesca — a  lady  of  the  land — art  going 
to  side  with  mill-men  and  such  like,  I  may  as  well  slip 
into  my  coffin  and  be  done  with  everything!" 


CHAPTER  II. 
"TAKE  CARE,  MY  LAD,  TAKE  CARE!" 

"  Lovers  have  said  these  things  before, 
Lovers  will  say  them  evermore." 

"  Don't  thee  marry  for  money, 
But  go  where  money  lies." 

QTEPHEN  LEIGH  was  the  owner  of  the  great  mill 
O  at  Little  Garsby,  a  village  that  lay  among  the  In- 
gleton  Falls,  on  the  borders  of  what  was  once  the  lone- 
liest and  loveliest  portion  of  the  West  Riding.  But 
steam  had  found  out  its  abundance  of  water  and  ready 
facilities,  and  gradually  its  hills  and  valleys  had  been 
blotched  with  mills  and  all  its  sparkling  waters  made  to 
toil  and  spin. 

The  Leighs  were  sons  and  daughters  of  the  soil; 
strong,  individual,  elemental  men  and  women,  whose 
prejudices  were  convictions,  and  whose  opinions,  likes, 
and  dislikes,  being  self-evolved,  were  in  reality  a  part  of 
each  existence,  and  not  to  be  surrendered  except  with 
the  life  of  which  they  were  the  expression. 

For  many  centuries  the  Leighs  had  lived  at  Leigh 
Farm,  a  large,  rambling,  gray  stone  house,  covered 
with  trained  fruit  trees.  The  branches  framed  the  low, 
wide  windows  of  lozenge-shaped  glass ;  and  the  house 
stood  in  a  pleasant  garden,  and  was  surrounded  by 
meadows  and  cornfields.  Stephen  Leigh  had  made 


"TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE    CARE!"       15 

some  fine  additions  to  it,  but  the  old  English  character 
of  the  house  had  been  preserved ;  and  even  the  interior 
decorations,  though  handsome  and  costly,  sustained  in  a 
satisfactory  manner  the  ancient  character  which  belonged 
to  the  place. 

Until  the  middle  of  the  present  century,  the  Leighs 
had  been  farmers,  and  were  known  far  and  wide  as 
great  horsemen — 

' '  Shrewd  Yorkshire  tykes, 
Who,  dealing  in  horseflesh, 
Had  never  their  likes." 

Stephen's  father  had  begun  weaving  in  a  small  way,  and 
with  but  a  half-heart.  Stephen  threw  all  his  faculties 
into  the  business,  and  he  had  made  himself  a  rich  and 
influential  man.  Unfortunately,  the  possession  of  more 
money  than  his  business  required  developed  in  him  a 
passion  for  investment  and  speculation  that  kept  his 
more  legitimate  gains  in  constant  danger  and  his  wife 
Martha  in  perpetual  fear  and  irritation. 

"  We  are  rich  people  living  night  and  day  on  the  varry 
edge  of  ruin,"  was  her  frequent  statement  of  their  posi- 
tion. 

This  conviction  made  her  go  about  her  beautiful 
home  with  a  soured  and  angry  heart,  for  Leigh  Farm 
was  the  very  apple  of  her  eye.  She  was  a  cousin  of 
Stephen's ;  her  mother  had  been  a  daughter  of  the 
house,  and  her  own  life  had  never  consciously  been 
spent  outside  its  walls.  From  garret  to  cellar  it  was 
crowded  with  the  belongings  and  the  associations  of  her 
people. 

That  they  were  out  of  this  world  did  not  weaken  their 


1 6  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

influence  over  her.  She  spoke  of  the  rooms  Seth  Leigh 
had  built  in  Queen  Anne's  reign  just  as  she  spoke  of 
those  her  husband  had  built  in  Queen  Victoria's  reign ; 
and  Cicely  Leigh,  who  one  hundred  years  before  had 
shot  a  man  discovered  in  the  act  of  setting  fire  to  her 
hay-ricks,  was  as  real  a  person  to  Martha  as  was  her  own 
husband  or  son.  She  often  went  about  her  work  talking 
to  the  shade  of  the  valiant  Cicely  as  if  she  was  present ; 
discussing  with  her  the  circumstances  which  led  to  the 
crime,  and  fully  exonerating  her  for  taking  so  fatal  a 
reprisal. 

The  rooms  that  had  been  Cicely  Leigh's  were  now 
Martha's ;  and  the  handsome  resolute  face  of  her  ances- 
tress followed  her  from  them,  and  went  with  her  about 
her  daily  duties,  and  was  a  familiar  to  Martha  Leigh's 
imagination ;  though  imagination  was  the  quality  which, 
above  all  others,  she  despised,  being  consciously  the 
most  practical  and  material  of  women ;  being  uncon- 
sciously highly  imaginative,  and  disposed  to  let  her  im- 
agination work  upon  such  spiritual  instincts  as  she  pos- 
sessed. 

She  had  married  Stephen  because  he  was  a  Leigh  and 
the  inheritor  of  the  old  house  which  she  so  dearly  loved. 
For  twenty  years  she  had  lived  in  it,  her  grandfather's 
favorite  companion ;  and  when  the  old  man  died  and 
Stephen  came  to  his  place,  she  had  not  unwillingly  ac- 
cepted the  new  master's  offer  to  remain  at  Leigh  Farm 
as  his  wife.  And  the  marriage  had  been  a  very  happy 
one  as  long  as  Stephen  was  only  making  money.  Chil- 
dren had  died,  and  losses  had  come,  but  the  balance  of 
happiness  and  gold  was  in  their  favor,  until  Stephen  had 
become  so  wealthy  that  the  overplus  of  his  gold  was  a 


"TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE    CARE!"       1J 

care.  Then  he  began  to  speculate  in  railroad  stock,  and, 
being  successful,  the  operation  became  irresistible  to  him. 

His  wife  trembled  for  the  reverses  she  was  certain 
would  come ;  and  her  perpetual  worrying  so  far  in- 
fluenced Stephen  as  to  make  him  resolve  to  build  another 
mill.  A  mill  at  least  was  a  tangible  result,  and  if  shares 
should  tumble  to  nothing,  the  mill  would  be  fast  on  its 
foundations,  and  be  so  much  saved  money. 

Looking  about  for  a  location,  he  fixed  his  mind  upon 
Atherton  Dingle.  That  Squire  Atherton  would  refuse 
to  sell  was  a  contingency  he  had  not  considered.  All 
his  life  he  had  found  money  abase  all  altitudes  and  over- 
come all  difficulties.  He  had  never  seen  any  adversity 
in  which  it  could  not  at  least  find  friends  ;  nor  any  pros- 
perity in  which  it  was  not  a  consideration.  That  a  man 
with  competent  senses  to  manage  his  affairs  should  re- 
fuse a  few  thousand  pounds  for  the  sake  of  cascades  and 
bluebells  and  pure  air,  seemed  to  Stephen  Leigh  either 
a  piece  of  unmitigated  folly,  or  of  deliberate  imperti- 
nence. 

And  he  was  half  inclined  to  think  Squire  Atherton 
had  been  ridiculing  his  commercial,  money-making  re- 
spectability :  "  Putting  a  bit  of  fine  scenery  before  a 
handsome  four-story  mill,  that  would  be  a  credit  and  an 
ornament  to  any  place,  ay,  to  Atherton  Court  itsen.  I 
made  him  a  tip-top  offer,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  son 
Lancelot,  with  an  air  of  inquiry. 

"  But  he  did  not  wish  to  sell  the  Dingle,  father." 

"  Niver  mind!  He'll  hev  to  sell,  varry  soon,  if  he 
goes  on  throwing  good  gold  away  wi'  a  toss  of  his  head 
and  a  wave  of  his  white  hand,  as  he  did  to-day.  But 
I'm  not  beat  yet!  Not  I!  I've  said  I  would  build  a 


1 8  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

mill  on  these  fells,  and  I  will.  Bingley  owns  the  land 
next  Atherton's.  I'll  be  bound  Bingley  will  take  my 
offer.  Will  a  mill  to  the  right  of  the  Dingle  be  any- 
better  than  one  in  it  ?  Not  a  bit.  And  Atherton  will 
be  a  few  thousand  pounds  out  of  pocket — that's  all." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  that  you  would  go  to  Bingley  ? " 

"  Ay,  I  did.  He  said :  '  If  Bingley  chose  to  sell,  that 
could  not  give  him  leave  or  license  to  be  false  to  his 
land  and  his  old  neighbors ! '  " 

"  I  think,  father,  Squire  Atherton  may  be  right,  from 
his  point  of  view.  If  England  is  to  remain  what  she 
has  been,  there  must  be  a  race  of  landed  gentlemen. 
John  Bull  is  a  man  of  acres  and  country  houses,  of 
cornfields  and  stalled  oxen." 

"  There  is  no  call  for  England  to  remain  what  she  is, 
or  hes  been.  She  might  be  a  goodish  bit  better.  The 
old  John  Bull  is  varry  nearly  dead,  my  lad,  and  his  sons 
hev  learnt  a  thing  or  two  beyond  cornfields  and  stalled 
oxen.  They  hev  gone  into  the  money  market,  and  into 
the  manufacturing  business.  Bless  you,  Lance,  there  is 
no  money  in  farming  now." 

"  Perhaps  Squire  Atherton  does  not  put  money  before 
everything  else." 

"Then  he  ought  to  do  so.  Pounds,  shillings,  and 
pence  stand  for  all  worth  heving." 

"  You  do  not  think  so,  father.  They  could  not  stand 
for  Atherton  Court,  with  its  grand  old  rooms  and  gar- 
dens full  of  old  associations." 

"  In  the  day  of  buying  and  selling,  how  much,  my 
lad,  will  old  associations  bring  ? " 

"  Father,  your  words  do  not  agree  with  your  actions. 
Leigh  Farm  House  is  not  a  splendid  home,  though  you 


•TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE    CARE!"       19 

have  spent  a  deal  of  money  on  it,  but  I  have  heard  you 
say  you  '  would  not  give  it  in  exchange  for  a  palace.' 
And  the  big  oak  chair  you  will  sit  in  is  about  as  uncom- 
fortable as  a  chair  can  be,  but  you  prefer  it  to  any  other 
chair,  and  you  permit  nobody  to  use  it  but  yourself." 

"Wait  a  bit,  my  lad.  When  I  am  gone  the  way  of 
my  fathers,  thou  can  stretch  thy  legs  out  of  it.  All  the 
Leighs,  when  they  hev  been  '  master,'  hev  sat  in  it.  I 
think  mysen  good  enough  to  fill  their  seat.  I  am  mebbe 
better  than  most  that  came  before.  I  hev  done  a  deal 
for  the  old  place,  and  I  hev  made  the  varry  name  of 
'  Leigh '  stand  for  a  bit  of  good  cloth,  all  over  that  part 
of  the  world  as  knows  what  a  bit  of  good  cotton  cloth 
ought  to  be.  And  I  will  tell  thee  something :  It  is  not 
the  landed  gentry  of  England,  nor  yet  Squire  Atherton, 
thou  art  thinking  about ;  it  is  Squire  Atherton's  bonny 
daughter.  Bless  thee,  Lance,  though  I  am  on  the  cold 
side  of  fifty,  I  can  see  as  far  as  thou  can." 

"In  most  directions  you  can  see  much  further,  sir. 
As  for  Miss  Atherton,  if  you  noticed  her,  you  must  ac- 
knowledge she  is  as  lovely  as  a  poet's  dream." 

"  I  set  varry  little  by  poets  and  their  dreams.  I  could 
always  do  my  awn  dreaming,  and  thy  mother  isn't  a  bad 
sample  of  it.  But  I  can  tell  thee  one  thing,  and  that  is, 
thou  need  not  bother  thysen  to  dream  of  Miss  Atherton. 
If  thou  does,  thy  dream  will  niver  come  true.  Niver, 
in  this  world !  Why-a !  She  is  a  lady  of  the  land,  and 
heiress  of  Atherton  Manor,  for  the  squire  hes  none  but 
her.  I  hev  no  doubt  she  holds  hersen  as  high  as  a  peer- 
ess in  her  awn  right  does." 

"  She  was  not  proud  with  me." 

"Ladies  like  her  do  not  carry  their  pride  on  their 


20  LOVE  FOR   AX  HOUR. 

tongue  and  in  their  fine  clothes.  I'll  tell  thee  what, 
Lance — it  is  in  their  blood.  It  is  part  of  their  life  and 
their  breath.  The  cradle  rocked  it  in  them,  and  the 
spade  will  find  it  there  to  bury." 

"  For  all  that,  I  admire  Miss  Atherton,  and  I  should 
like  to  win  her  love  and  her  hand." 

"  I  should  not  like  it,  and  thou  isn't  going  to  try  it. 
I'll  not  hev  thee  making  a  fool  and  a  failure  of  thysen. 
I  hev  a  right  wife  picked  out  for  thee,  whenever  thou 
frames  to  settling  down — a  pretty  maid,  and  a  moneyed 
one." 

" How  can  you  choose  a  wife  for  me,  father? " 

'"  Well,  I  hev  chosen  a  lot  of  other  things  for  thee,  all 
thy  life  long.  I  don't  think  a  wife  is  beyond  my  stock 
of  common  sense." 

"  Every  man  likes  to  choose  his  own  wife ;  that  is 
natural,  father.  Even  the  robins  that  built  under  the 
eaves  had  their  choice  free  in  all  the  fields  of  air.  And 
I  am  sure  they  impose  no  rich-plumed  wife  upon  their 
feathered  sons." 

"  I  do  hope  and  trust  thou  gives  me  credit  for  more 
sense  than  a  robin-redbreast  hes.  And  thy  argument  is 
all  against  thee,  my  lad.  Robins  marry  robins.  And 
I'll  be  obliged  to  thee  to  marry  a  bird  of  thy  awn  feather 
— a  spinner's  daughter,  with  a  goodish  bit  of  money. 
There  are  plenty  to  pick  from.  But  for  Lance  Leigh 
to  go  courting  a  county  lady,  with  an  old  estate  and  a 
pedigree  still  older,  is  varry  like  a  robin-redbreast  going 
to  twitter  its  little  song  to  my  lady  nightingale." 

"  Whom  are  you  thinking  of  as  a  proper  wife  for  me, 
father  ?  " 

"  Maria  Crossley." 


"TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE   CARE!"      21 

"Oh!" 

"Thou  need  not  say  '  Oh! '  in  that  kind  of  King-of- 
England  way.  Thou  isn't  one  by  thysen,  and  none  other 
like  thee.  And  thou  could  go  further  and  fare  worse." 

"  I  shall  not  go  further  at  present.  As  for  Miss  Cross- 
ley,  she  is  a  very  nice  girl.  I  think  mother  likes  her." 

"It  is  hard  to  say  who  or  what  thy  mother  likes 
lately.  I  think  sometimes  she  does  not  like  me  varry 
much.  The  stones  and  wood  in  Leigh  House  are  more 
to  her  than  the  flesh  and  blood  that  it  shelters." 

"  No,  no,  father!  Mother  loves  the  old  home  dearly, 
but  you  and  myself  much  more  dearly." 

"  I  would  not  set  a  half -penny  on  that,  Lance.  Sell 
a  rood  of  Leigh  land,  or  a  tree  out  of  Leigh  wood,  or 
put  a  hundred  pounds  mortgage  on  the  house,  and  thou 
would  mebbe  get  thy  eyes  opened  to  the  true  state  of 
that  case.  Thou  sees  she  hes  niver  gone  into  the  world, 
as  thee  and  I  hev  done ;  she  hes  lived  all  her  life  inside 
the  old  walls,  and  I  think  she  would  find  it  hard  to  live 
anywhere  else.  If  the  dead  ever  came  back,  Lance,  I 
should  say  thy  mother  hed  come  back  for  all  the  Leighs 
that  iver  lived  before  her.  She  knows  their  names,  and 
what  they  did  and  what  they  didn't  do ;  and  if  it  wasn't 
for  my  awn  father  and  mother,  I  could  almost  wish 
most  of  them  hed  died  before  they  were  born." 

In  such  conversation,  interrupted  by  asides  arising 
from  the  peculiarities  of  the  road,  Stephen  Leigh  and 
his  son,  Lancelot,  passed  their  journey.  It  was  the 
gloaming  when  they  reached  home,  and  in  the  soft  gray 
light  the  old  stone  dwelling  had  a  very  distinctive  air; 
as  if  the  generations  of  strong  men  and  women  who  had 
lived  there  had  left  something  of  themselves  and  their 


22  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

lives  around  it.  The  ivy  climbed  to  the  topmost  chim- 
ney, and  the  swallows  were  silently  executing  marvelous 
movements  above  it.  All  else  was  so  still  and  motion- 
less, that  it  might  have  been  a  house  in  a  picture. 

They  entered  by  a  heavy  oak  door  in  the  old  portion, 
and  were  at  once  in  a  large  parlor.  Mrs.  Leigh  stood 
by  a  table  with  a  Japan  caddy  in  her  hand,  from  which 
she  was  measuring  tea  into  a  silver  tea-pot.  She  looked 
up  as  her  husband  and  son  entered.  Her  face  was 
handsome  but  melancholy ;  and  her  eyes,  though  bright 
blue,  were  cold,  almost  cruel. 

"Well,  Martha!"  said  Stephen,  in  a  conciliating 
manner. 

"  Nay,  I  think  it  is  about  as  ill  as  can  be.  Whativer 
fool's  errand  hes  ta  been  on  to-day  ? " 

Stephen  answered  in  a  tone  of  offense : 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  as  big  a  fool  as  ta  likes  to  think  I 
am,  Martha.  I  hev  been  to  try  and  buy  a  bit  of  land — 
thou  is  always  for  buying  land,  thou  knows." 

"  Did  ta  buy  it  ? " 

"  Why,  no ;  the  man  was  not  willing  to  sell.  I 
couldn't  buy  it  without  his  permission,  now,  could  I  ? " 

"  It  was  like  thee  to  go  after  land  that  wasn't  in  the 
market ;  asking  for  land  as  a  favor,  when  ta  was  going 
to  pay  a  good  penny  for  it,  I'll  be  bound." 

Then  Lance  said  something  to  his  mother,  and  she 
smiled  coldly,  but  lifted  eyes  full  of  affection  to  him. 
Stephen  had  left  the  room,  and  Lance  made  a  rema'rk 
about  it.  Mrs.  Leigh  shook  her  head,  but  Lance 
followed  his  father  to  the  stable,  and  the  two  men  re- 
turned together.  Stephen  had  still  an  injured  air,  and 
the  meal  was  silent  and  formal. 


"TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE    CARE!"      23 

After  it  Lance  went  to  his  own  apartments.  They 
were  in  one  of  the  new  wings,  and  occupied  the  second 
floor.  He  lit  his  cigar,  flung  wide  the  casements,  and 
began  to  think  of  Francesca.  Oh,  how  sweet,  how 
loftily  modest,  how  frankly  kind  she  had  been!  How 
he  loved  her  already!  He  whispered  her  name,  and 
it  was  like  the  passing-by  of  violets.  He  thought  of  her, 
and  she  stood  like  a  goddess,  clear  and  fair  in  her  own 
light.  All  other  women  passed  out  of  his  memory. 
There  was  no  room  for  them.  Francesca!  Only  Fran- 
cesca.' He  was  awake,  yet  dreaming,  and  that  was  his 
pleasure ;  dreaming  of  his  love  so  chastely  and  so  nobly 
that  he  could  have  told  her  every  thought. 

The  room  was  a  very  handsome  one,  full  of  such  treas- 
ures as  young  men  who  have  plenty  of  money  gather 
while  they  are  at  their  college  or  on  their  travels.  Usu- 
ally, as  he  smoked,  he  was  fond  of  walking  about  it,  of 
rearranging  its  ornaments,  or  of  looking  into  his  books, 
or  of  standing  before  some  favorite  picture.  But  this 
night  he  could  think  only  of  that  beautiful  girl  whom  he 
had  found  waiting  for  him  in  the  clematis  arbor.  Fate 
had  sent  her  there ;  that  fate  which  brings  two  hearts 
together,  though  they  be  as  far  as  the  East  and  the  West 
from  each  other.  To  this  idea  he  gave  ready  possession, 
and  it  filled  him  with  a  sweet  and  invincible  hope. 

After  a  little  time  his  mother  came  to  him.  If  she  was 
alone,  she  often  did  so.  Her  knitting  was  in  her  hand, 
and  she  sat  down  by  the  window  to  catch  the  last  rays 
of  the  gloaming. 

"  Mother,"  said  Lance,  "  I  have  seen  to-day  the  love- 
iiest  woman  on  earth." 

"  Oh,  my  lad !      I  count  little  by  thy  words.     L  have 


24  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

heard  that  tale  too  often.  In  three  months  thou  wilt 
say  to  me,  some  night :  '  Mother,  she  is  varry  tiresome 
and  selfish.  I  wonder  I  iver  thought  her  pretty.'  I 
know.  There  was  Alicia,  and  Dorothy,  and  Harriet, 
and  Jane — all  of  them  without  a  marrow  on  earth  or  in 
heaven.  Alicia  tired  of  thee,  and  thou  tired  of  Dorothy, 
and  Harriet  married  a  member  of  Parliament — which  she 
said  thou  would  never  be — and  Jane  is  to  be  married 
about  Christinas,  if  not  before." 

"  Jane  Idle  to  be  married  ? " 

"To  be  sure  she  is — to  a  man  from  Batley,  who 
makes  shoddy — a  fat  man,  with  a  red  necktie  and  a  blue 
vest  and  a  mint  of  money.  That's  the  kind  when  a  girl 
is  choosing  a  husband.  A  man  like  thee  is  fit  only  for 
sweethearting." 

"  And  I  once  thought  that  Jane  loved  me  and  that  I 
loved  her.  We  said  so  to  each  other.  What  mistakes 
young  men  make!" 

"  Ay,  and  young  women  also.  Now,  Lance,  open  thy 
heart  to  me.  Who  is  thy  new  angel  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  she  is  an  angel.  I  never  before  had 
the  least  desire  to  kneel  to  a  woman.  I  never  believed 
men  who  said  they  did  so,  either  mentally  or  literally. 
Joe  Dykes  said  he  knelt  to  Rose  Schofield.  Joe  said 
there  were  women  who  made  a  man  feel  that  he  would 
be  happy  to  pay  such  homage,  and  Joe  spoke  the  truth." 

"  Joe  Dykes  must  speak  for  himsen  and  for  thee.  I 
niver  saw  a  woman  of  that  kind.  Niver!  If  thy  father 
had  knelt  down  to  me,  I  would  hev  sent  him  off  without 
any  words  about  it.  It  is  varry  hard  work  to  make  a 
Yorkshireman  bend  his  head,  let  alone  his  knees.  No- 
tice a  bit  next  Sunday,  and  thou  wilt  see  what  lofty  air? 


"TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE    CARE  I"       2$ 

they  put  on,  even  in  church.  I  can  tell  thee,  that  the 
clerk  and  the  women  hev  always  that  part  of  the  Litany 
asking  mercy  for  '  miserable  sinners '  all  to  themsens. 
Happen  some  of  the  women  kneel,  as  they  should  do, 
but  the  men !  They  stand  up,  and  they  sit  down,  and 
they  put  their  heads  in  their  hats — some  of  them — but 
they  do  not  kneel.  And  I  must  say,  I  niver  heard  tell 
of  thee  '  kneeling '  before.  Now,  pray,  who  dost  thou 
want  to  '  kneel '  to  ?  " 

"  Squire  Atherton's  daughter — Francesca." 
"  I  have  heard  Jane  Idle  speak  of  her.     She  was  a 
school-companion  of  Jane's.     I  dare  say  she  will  be  at 
Jane's  wedding." 

"  What  did  you  hear  about  her,  mother  ?  " 
"  Nay,  nothing  but  what  was  proper  enough.     Jane 
said  she  was  varry  sweet  and  stately,  mebbe  a  bit  proud. 
She  is  a  county  lady,  and  is  niver  likely  to  marry  thee, 
Lance.     Where  did  thou  meet  her  ?  " 

"  Father  went  to  Atherton  Court  on  business,  and 
while  he  and  the  squire  were  talking,  I  walked  into  the 
garden.  There  was  a  pretty  clematis  arbor,  and  she 
stood  there.  Before  I  spoke  a  word —  " 

"  She  went  right  into  thy  heart,  I'll  be  bound,  Lance  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother ;  without  a  word,  as  sweetly  and  silently 

as  roses  are  born.     One  minute  I  did  not  know  she  was 

in  the  world,  and  the  next  minute  she  was  all  the  world 

to  me." 

"  I'll  warrant  thou  wilt  be  making  poetry  about  her. 

Now,  what  business  had  thy  father  at  Atherton  Court  ?  " 

"  He  wanted  to  buy  some  land  of  the  squire." 

"  He'll  buy  land  till  he  hesn't  a  penny  left  to  buy 

bread  with.     He  keeps  me  in  hot  water  from  day  to 


26  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

day,  till  I'm  not  mysen  at  all.  Lance,  if  ta  loves  me, 
and  all  thou  should  love,  get  thee  a  wise-like  wife  and 
bring  her  here.  If  thou  marries  to  please  thy  father,  he 
will  settle  Leigh  Farm  upon  thee  and  thy  heirs  forever ; 
and  I'll  be  out  of  this  constant,  aching  uncertainty. 
Marry  Maria  Crossley,  and  he'll  be  that  pleased  thou 
can  ask  him  for  anything  he  hes.  She  is  a  varry  nice 
girl,  Lance." 

"  I  could  not  marry  Maria." 

"  But  thou  must,  Lance.  I  told  Maria  to-day  thou 
was  varry  fond  of  her." 

"  Mother,  you  should  not  have  said  so.  I  am  not 
fond  of  her.  I  cannot  marry  any  girl  unless  I  love  her." 

"Love!  Love!  Love!  I  am  weary  of  the  word.  It 
is  nothing  but  an  excuse  for  all  kinds  of  selfishness. 
When  thy  father  asked  me  to  marry  him,  I  knew  it  was 
the  best  thing  for  Leigh  Farm,  and  I  put  all  things 
behind  that.  Maria  will  gladly  marry  thee  and  come 
and  live  in  this  house  with  us.  And  Peter  Crossley  is 
a  sharp  man ;  he  will  make  thy  father  secure  this  home 
to  thee." 

"  I  would  do  nothing  against  father,  especially  under- 
hand.  Crossley  is  not  fit  to  even  father  in  any  way, 
and  I  will  not  marry  Crossley's  daughter  and  let  Cross- 
ley  dictate  on  the  subject  to  my  father." 

"  I  do  believe  thou  cares  nothing  at  all  for  the  house 
that  has  been  the  home  of  the  Leighs  for  centuries.  I 
am  ashamed  of  thee." 

"  I  do  care  for  the  house ;  but  I  care  for  my  father 
and  my  honor  and  my  love  far  more." 

She  rose  passionately,  and  at  the  door  turned  with  a 
flaming  face,  and  said : 


"TAKE    CARE,  MY  LAD,    TAKE    CARE!"      2J 

"Thy  father!  Thy  honor!  Thy  love!  Every 
stone  in  this  dear  house  is  worth  the  whole  of  them. 
Thy  father  is  but  one  man.  There  are  thousands  of 
Leighs  behind  him.  Thou  will  hev  to  go  to  them.  Thou 
will  hev  to  reckon  with  them.  TaK.e  care,  my  lad,  take 
care. 


CHAPTER    IIJ. 

THE    SQUIRE    AND    THE    SPINNER. 

But  this  is  human  life — the  war,  the  deeds, 
The  disappointment,  the  anxiety, 
Imaginations,  struggles  far  and  nigh, 
All  human ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good — 
That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food, 
To  make  us  feel  existence. — Keats. 

THE  evils  of  poverty  are  evident  and  easily  under- 
stood ;  those  of  wealth  are  more  complex,  but  per- 
.haps  not  the  less  trying.  Martha  Leigh  really  suffered 
as  much  in  the  supposed  danger  of  a  mortgaged  home 
as  if  the  mortgage  was  an  accomplished  fact.  Yet  there 
was  really  no  obvious  reason  for  her  anxiety ;  for  Ste- 
phen, though  a  bold  and  far-seeing  speculator,  was  not 
an  unwise  one.  All  his  investments  were  likely  to  bear 
the  touch  of  time,  and  if  they  were  permitted  to  ripen, 
to  yield  a  wealthy  return. 

But  women  have  neither  the  faith  nor  the  patience  for 
such  money  transactions.  They  demand  certain  and 
rapid  results,  and  are  not  content  unless  some  security 
on  which  they  have  set  their  hearts  is  placed  beyond 
doubt.  Martha  Leigh  felt  that  if  Leigh  Farm  was  abso- 
lutely secure  she  could  be  happy.  But  this  was  the  one 
point  Stephen  was  indisposed  to  humor  her  in.  He  had 
promised  not  to  involve  the  old  home,  and  he  felt  her 
perpetual  anxiety  to  be  a  doubt  of  his  honor,  and  an  in- 


THE   SQUIRE  AND   THE   SPINNER.  29 

suit  to  his  own  regard  for  those  who  were  behind,  and 
those  who  were  to  follow  him. 

And  Stephen  had  masterful  ways  which  might  be  criti- 
cised, but  which  no  one  felt  able  to  interfere  with.  The 
enterprises  he  had  begun  he  pursued,  regardless  of  the 
opinion  of  his  wife  and  family.  They  would  acknowl- 
edge his  wisdom  some  day ;  and  he  was  satisfied  to  wait 
for  his  justification  until  financial  returns  deserved  it. 

In  his  own  mind  he  had  built  the  new  mill,  and  seen 
its  thousand  looms  toiling  for  his  benefit ;  and  he  went 
steadily  to  work  to  realize  his  ideal.  Squire  Bingley  sold 
him  the  land  he  wanted,  and  in  a  few  weeks  the  great 
foundations  were  laid,  and  the  mill  yet  to  be  was  exer- 
cising a  pronounced  influence  among  the  inhabitants  of 
the  lonely  village.  Men  and  women,  looking  forward 
to  its  better  wages,  refused  to  hire  for  long  terms  to 
their  old  masters.  Speculative  owners  of  land  were 
already  building  cottages  for  the  "hands."  Shops  of 
various  kinds  were  in  preparation,  and  subscriptions  were 
being  solicited  for  a  Wesleyan  Chapel. 

These  changes  so  barely  indicated  met  Squire  Ather- 
ton  with  painful  distinctness.  They  grew  day  by  day 
with  irritating  celerity.  Every  time  he  went  beyond  his 
own  park  gates  he  was  aware  of  some  intrusion  of  the 
new  into  the  old.  He  blamed  Leigh  for  all  his  annoy- 
ances. He  met  him  frequently  going  to  and  fro,  and 
as  yet  he  always  touched  his  hat  to  his  enemy,  with  a 
kind  of  proud  tolerance  of  the  wrong  done  him.  Leigh 
returned  the  courtesy,  though  often  with  an  indifference 
which  deeply  offended  the  lord  of  the  manor. 

"  I  shall  be  nobody  soon,  even  in  my  own  village," 
he  said  angrily  to  Miss  Vyner.  "  A  few  weeks  ago,  and 


30  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

men  and  women  would  have  sworn  to  live  and  die  with 
me.  Now  it  is  Stephen  Leigh  whichever  way  I  turn: 
what  he  is  doing,  and  what  he  is  going  to  do ;  what  he 
has  given,  and  what  he  is  going  to  give.  I  tell  thee, 
Loida,  I  feel  very  much  as  if  I  was  being  edged  out  of 
my  own  nest  and  place.  It  is  too  bad  of  Bingley.  I 
will  never  forgive  him!  Never!" 

"  Indeed,  Rashleigh,  you  need  not  fret  about  your 
tenants.  If  they  have  deserted  you,  they  have  also  de- 
serted the  church  into  which  they  were  all  baptized. 
Gammer  Oddy  told  me  to-day  that  Leigh  was  going  to 
build  a  chapel  and  some  kind  of  an  institute  for  the 
'  hands ' ;  and  she  was  rejoicing  in  such  a  way  about 
them  you  would  have  thought  there  never  had  been  a 
church  in  the  parish,  though  she  has  been  fed  from  it 
for  many  a  year." 

"  And,"  continued  the  squire,  "  I  saw  that  young  man 
to-day  who  came  here  with  his  father.  He  was  wan- 
dering around  the  park  entrance,  and  I  thought  of  Fran- 
cesca  and  felt  faint  at  heart.  Do  you  think  Francesca 
has  been  meeting  him  unknown  to  us,  Loida  ?  " 

"Squire!  Do  I  think  shamefully  of  my  niece ?  No 
sir,  I  do  not.  Francesca  is  incapable  of  anything  clan- 
destine." 

"  They  met  in  the  garden." 

"What  by  that?  The  moment  before  they  met, 
Francesca  had  not  known  of  the  young  man's  existence. 
She  told  me  about  their  interview.  He  is  a  very  pleas- 
ant young  man,  Rashleigh.  You  cannot  say  different." 

"  He  is  his  father's  son.     I  can  say  that." 

"  We  must  be  just,  Rashleigh.  The  father  gave  you 
the  first  offer.  And  when  you  refused  it,  he  told  you 


THE   SQUIRE  AND    THE   SPINNER.  31 

plainly  he  must  go  to  Bingley.  He  was  very  straight- 
forward." 

"  I  do  not  think,  Loida,  that  a  wrong  being  '  straight- 
forward '  makes  it  any  easier  to  bear." 

"  Oh,  but  it  does!  One  would  rather  have  a  stab  in 
the  breast  than  in  the  back.  But  you  need  not  fear 
Francesca  will  ever  give  you  a  back-blow.  She  has  all 
the  honor  of  her  race,  and  all  the  native  modesty  of  a 
pure,  proud  woman.  You  may  send  her  into  the  world 
with  a  safe  heart,  Rashleigh." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  it.  I  know  well  that  keeping  a 
woman  in  a  lonely  place  is  no  protection.  God  Al- 
mighty shut  the  first  woman  up  in  a  garden,  and  even 
He  could  not  keep  her  safe.  I  had  a  letter  this  morning 
from  my  friend  Thomas  Idle.  His  daughter  Jane  is 
going  to  be  married,  and  he  wants  us  to  come  to  Idle- 
holme.  I  cannot  go,  but  thou  might  take  Francesca. 
She  will  be  the  better  for  a  change." 

"  Why  cannot  you  go  also  ?  " 

"  I  should  leave  myself  behind.  I  can  do  nothing 
for  nor  against  Leigh's  mill,  but  I  like  to  be  on  the  spot. 
Something  may  turn  up  to  my  advantage  or  against  it. 
Either  way,  I  want  to  be  ready  and  waiting." 

"  Have  you  thought  about  Almund  Idle  ?  " 

"  I  have.  Like  cures  like,  and  one  love  may  cast  out 
another.  If  Francesca  has  taken  a  liking  to  that  son  of 
Stephen  Leigh's,  young  Idle  may  at  least  set  it  wavering. 
He  is  not  a  bad  kind,  I  fancy,  what  I  have  seen  of 
him." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  family." 

"  They  are  good  stock.  I  used  to  think  no  one  was 
worthy  of  Francesca,  but  I  feel  now  that  it  will  be.  luck 


32  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

enough  to  have  her  wed  some  one  that  I  do  not  hate. 
This  is  a  disappointing  life,  Loida.  We  are  sure  of 
such  great  things  when  we  first  begin  to  reckon  up  our 
treasure,  and  every  day  we  have  to  count  less,  and  give 
up  here  and  take  off  there,  until  we  are  glad  to  get  ten 
where  we  thought  once  to  get  a  hundred.  I  used  to 
think  of  a  lord,  at  least,  for  my  Francesca.  I  will  be 
grateful  now  if  she  will  only  give  me  a  son  out  of  a 
county  family  that  I  can  bear  to  see  come  in  and  out 
with  any  kind  of  pleasure." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  nurse  a  prejudice,  Rashleigh. 
I  am  sure  young  Leigh  made  a  great  impression  on 
Francesca,  and  her  heart  is  not  one  to  lose  that  impres- 
sion readily." 

"  I  am  sure  if  she  marries  that  young  man  she  will 
never  see  my  face  again." 

"  Rashleigh! " 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  She  may  go  to  him,  but  she 
cannot  bring  him  to  me.  No,  no !  My  Frances  will  do 
nothing  like  that.  She  knows  I  hold  his  father  as  the 
worst  enemy  I  ever  had.  Do  you  think  she  will  open 
my  house-door  to  the  son?  Will  she  dare  to  write  his 
name  among  those  of  her  own  ancestors  ?  It  is  not 
likely,  is  it,  Loida  ? " 

"  Squire,  I  have  seen  this  thing  come  to  pass — men 
swear  to  themselves,  and  then  find  it  right  and  just  to 
forswear  their  oath.  The  world  changes  so  fast  now 
that  no  one  can  safely  say :  '  Next  year  I  shall  feel  as  1 
do  this  year.' " 

"  If  it  comes  to  feeling,  Loida,  how  many  years  has 
thou  been  faithful  1 " 

"When  the  loved  one  is  absent  and  silent,  he  can 


THE   SQUIRE  AND    THE   SPINNER.  33 

neither  grieve  nor  wrong  us.  Then  it  is  easy  to  be  faith- 
ful. And  what  is  life  worth  without  love,  Rashleigh  ?  " 

"A  poor  thing,  Loida!  It  is  earth  without  verdure, 
and  it  is  bread  without  salt.  Tell  Frances  to  go  to  Jane 
Idle's  wedding.  Maybe  nothing  comes  of  it!  A  girl 
may  go  through  the  world  and  never  meet  a  lover ;  and 
then  some  day,  when  she  is  safe  at  home,  Love  may 
come  riding  up  and  wreck  her  whole  life.  It  is  a  very 
queer  thing,  but  I  have  seen  it  so.  I  am  going  to  the 
cover  for  an  hour.  When  I  am  a  bit  put  out  it  is  re- 
lieving to  fire  a  gun  at  something,  is  it  not,  Loida  ? " 

She  watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  then  went  to  look 
for  her  niece.  Francesca  had  gone  to  the  village.  No 
one  knew  why  she  had  gone,  nor  yet  why  she  had  chosen 
to  walk  there.  Indeed,  Francesca  could  not  herself 
have  explained  the  "  wherefore  "  of  her  whim.  But  it 
was  an  exquisite  morning  in  October,  and  the  sweetly 
insinuating  melancholy  of  the  season  inclined  her  to  put 
herself  in  touch  with  it.  She  pushed  her  feet  through 
the  faded  grasses  and  leaves.  She  felt  the  perfume  of 
the  dying  strawberry-vines,  and  it  went  to  her  heart  like 
a  psalm.  The  air  was  subtle,  and  the  amber  rays  shone 
through  the  delicate  mist  as  through  an  ethereal  veil  of 
air  made  visible.  And  all  the  time  the  church-bells  were 
ringing  slowly  and  softly — a  grave  harmony,  swelling 
and  dilating  in  the  morning  air.  Now  and  then  also  a 
breeze — a  mere  puff — just  lifted  the  dying  leaves,  and 
left  her  senses  full  of  delicious  perfume  and  languor — • 
that  intermediate  melancholy  which  is  at  the  root  of  all 
true  happiness. 

She  wandered  slowly  onward,  knowing  no  more  why 
she  did  so  than  why  in  June  she  went  to  the  rose-bushes 


34  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

every  morning  to  lay  her  face  against  the  flowers,  and 
taste  their  scent  and  feel  the  rose-dew  on  her  lips.  She 
was  not  thinking  of  anything,  but  her  mind  was  in  that 
quiescent  state  which  good  influences  can  inform.  So 
she  slowly  strolled  homeward,  and  was  in  a  road  where 
the  interweaving  branches  of  birches  made  a  lace-work 
of  trees  against  the  sky,  when  she  heard  the  quick  gallop 
of  a  horse's  feet.  It  roused  in  her  no  speculation,  and 
gave  to  her  heart  no  warning.  Only  when  the  rider 
drew  rein  and  leaped  to  her  side  did  she  turn  her  eyes 
upon  him. 

It  was  Lancelot  Leigh,  and  in  the  moment  of  their 
meeting  Lancelot  saw  both  love  and  joy  flash  into  her 
face.  It  was  swift  as  thought  to  come  and  go,  but  it 
made  an  unconscious  community  of  feeling  between 
them.  With  his  bridle  over  his  arm  he  walked  by  her 
side,  saying  only  the  commonest  words,  and  yet  charg- 
ing them  with  all  of  love's  subtle  longing  and  uncon- 
scious worship.  The  first  formal  greetings  over,  there 
were  a  few  moments  of  silence.  Both  were  embar- 
rassed. 

It  was  Francesca  who  first  began  to  talk  with  eager 
rapidity,  on  whatever  subject  was  nearest  to  her. 

"  That  is  the  wise  robin,"  she  said,  as  they  passed  the 
bird.  "  He  sings  as  cheerfully  among  the  scarlet  haws 
in  October  as  he  did  in  March  among  the  hawthorn 
flowers." 

"  I  wonder  if  we  shall  be  like  him — as  happy  facing 
our  life's  winter  as  our  youth's  spring  ? "  said  Lancelot. 

"  I  think  we  ought  to  be.  My  father  was  as  happy 
as  he  could  be,  until — " 

Then  she  suddenly  remembered,  and  became  silent. 


THE    SQUIRE  AND    THE   SPINNER.  35 

"  Until  my  father  began  to  build  the  mill.  I  am  so 
sorry  about  it.  Will  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Yes ;   I  do  believe  you." 

"  I  would  not  give  you — or  any  one  you  loved — pain. 
If  you  desired  it,  and  the  mill  was  mine,  I  would  stop 
building  this  hour." 

"  Have  you  ever  walked  through  Atherton  Dingle  ? " 

"  No.  I  would  like  to  visit  it.  Will  you  show  it  to 
me  some  day  f  I  hear  it  is  a  little  fairyland." 

"  Indeed  it  is.  In  May  and  June  and  July  it  is  like 
that  heavenly  hill  which  God  called  '  Paradise.'  The 
lights  are  so  softly  green,  the  little  cascades  leap  so  joy- 
fully, and  oh,  the  wild-flowers  and  the  lady-ferns !  They 
are  beautiful  beyond  belief.  To  make  its  waters  black 
with  oils  and  dyes ;  to  cover  its  flowers  and  verdure 
with  the  refuse  of  spinning-mills!  How  could  any  one 
think  of  such  a  desecration  ?  I  am  sure  Nature  can  suf- 
fer murder.  The  sod  would  feel  the  sharp  spade,  and 
the  sweet  flowers  sadly  give  up  their  fair  lives,  and  the 
waters  mourn  for  their  loss,  for — 

"  '  'Tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes.' 

Can  you  not  feel  this  ? " 

"  I  feel  every  word  you  say,  like  a  wound  in  my  own 
heart.  But,  alas!  to  most  men — 

"  '  A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  is  to  him, 
And  it  is  nothing  more.'  " 

"  We  have  both  been  quoting  Wordsworth,"  said 
Francesca. 

"People  quote  him  almost  unconsciously;  he  has  so 


36  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

many  '  felicities.'     I  do  not  profess  to  be  less  practical 
than  my  age,  but  yet  I  prefer  poets  to  philosophers,  for — 

"  '  Philosophy  will  clip  an  angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line, 
Empty  the  haunted  air  and  gnomed  mine.'  " 

"That  is  true,"  answered  Francesca.  "There  was 
an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven.  But  we  know  its 
woof  and  texture,  and  have  put  it  into  the  dull  catalogue 
of  common  things.  That  is  also  a  poet's  way  of  lament- 
ing the  practical  life  we  now  live.  Do  you  hear  the 
blackbird  singing?  It  sings  at  noon  when  all  the  other 
birds  are  silent.  I  wonder  if  he  is  proud  of  his  song." 

"  I  suppose  so.  What  joyful  creatures  birds  are.  No 
wonder  that  Aristophanes  makes  them  address  men  as — 

"  '  Naked  and  featherless, 
Feeble  and  querulous, 
Sickly,  calamitous, 
Creatures  of  clay ; ' 

and  bids  them — 

"  '  Attend  to  the  words 
Of  the  sovereign  birds, 
Immortal,  illustrious 
Lords  of  the  air, 
Who  survey  from  on  high, 
With  a  merciful  eye, 
Our  struggles  of  misery, 
Labor  and  care.' " 

"Is  that  from  Aristophanes?  I  have  read  his  life, 
but  none  of  his  poetry.  Men  read  such  books  at  their 
college,  do  they  not  ?  " 

"You  may  read  with  delight  his  'Birds.'  It  is  the 
'Midsummer  Night's  Dream'  of  Greece." 


THE   SQUIRE  AND    THE   SPINNER.  37 

He  was  not  really  thinking  of  the  Greek  poet.  He 
was  only  feeling  how  soon  the  pleasant  meeting  would 
be  over.  He  could  not  say  what  he  wanted  to  say,  and 
if  he  had  found  the  language  he  desired,  he  would  still 
have  been  afraid  to  utter  it.  The  girl  at  his  side  walked  in 
an  atmosphere  he  could  not  enter.  And  yet  she  delayed 
her  steps,  and  he  felt  she  willingly  delayed.  She  listened 
to  him  with  eyes  full  of  light  and  sympathy ;  he  felt  that 
he  interested  her.  But  all  his  usual  self-confidence  had 
deserted  him.  The  petty,  pretty  compliments  he  had 
offered  to  a  score  of  lovely  women  seemed  too  cold  and 
meaningless.  He  would  have  talked  to  her  in  words  made 
on  purpose,  but  he  could  not  make  them.  For  he  felt 
that  their  conversation  had  been  forced  and  misleading, 
a  thin  coat  of  ice  over  a  river  deep,  resistless  beneath  it. 

And  they  were  now  at  the  park  gates,  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  thickets  of  laurestine  and  pyracanthus. 
She  was  thanking  him — hoping  to  see  him  again — 
speaking  such  ordinary  words  as  were  natural,  but  in  a 
strangely  conscious,  embarrassed  manner.  For  at  this 
last  minute,  Lancelot's  eyes  were  saying  what  his  coward 
tongue  had  shirked ;  and  as  she  hesitated  her  common- 
place  adieu,  his  dilating  iris  held  her  to  the  spot.  He 
was  reading  her  very  soul,  and  paying  no  attention 
whatever  to  her  words. 

Then  there  was  the  sound  of  rapid  footsteps,  the  lau- 
rels were  sharply  struck,  the  birds  flew  out  in  a  cloud, 
and  Squire  Atherton  set  the  gate  wide  open.  He  looked 
at  Lancelot  and  returned  his  bow  very  slightly.  Fran- 
cesca  said : 

"  I  met  Mr.  Leigh  in  the  birch  avenue ;  he  has  kindly 
walked  to  the  gates  with  me,  father." 


38  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"Very  kind  of  Mr.  Leigh,  I  am  sure.  Good-day, 
sir."  Then  he  turned  suddenly  and  faced  the  young 
man :  "  And  thou  may  as  well  understand  the  '  good- 
day  '  is  for  every  day  as  well  as  this  one.  I  did  not  seek 
thy  acquaintance,  and  it  is  not  pleasant  to  me  to  have  it. 
If  thou  had  any  sense  or  right  feeling,  thou  would  have 
understood  so  much." 

"  Squire,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  have  no  ill  feeling 
toward  you." 

"  Thou  would  be  a  queer  one  if  thou  had.  I  never 
did  thee  or  thine  any  wrong  that^I  know  of.  But  Leigh 
is  wronging  Atherton  this  day  and  every  day,  and  when 
I  tell  thee  to  keep  out  of  my  sight,  and  away  from  my 
home  and  my  daughter,  I  show  thee  quite  as  much 
Christianity  as  thou  has  any  right  to  expect." 

Lancelot  looked  at  Francesca,  and  his  eyes  made  an 
appeal  that  was  irresistible. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Leigh  is  very  sorry  about 
the  mill.  He  told  me  so.  He  would  stop  the  building 
of  it  if  he  could." 

"  Then  he  is  a  very  bad  son — a  particularly  bad  son — 
and  I  am  right  glad  he  is  no  kin  of  mine.  If  he  had 
stood  by  his  father  and  threeped  me  to  my  face  that  his 
father  was  right,  and  I  was  far  wrong,  I  would  have 
thought  a  deal  better  of  him." 

The  squire  was  answered  by  Stephen  Leigh  himself. 
The  old  man  had  seen  his  son  and  Miss  Atherton  to- 
gether, and  had  felt  a  sudden  kind  feeling  toward  the 
young  people ;  and  as  Stephen  had  the  most  exalted 
idea  of  his  own  influence,  and  of  his  own  way  of  man- 
aging the  most  difficult  affairs,  he  had  felt  no  delicacy 
in  interfering.  His  heart  was  full  of  affection ;  he  was 


THE    SQUIRE  AND    THE    SPINNER.  39 

planning  a  munificent  offer,  and  no  doubts  or  wavering 
stayed  his  steps.  The  squire,  Francesca,  and  his  own 
son  stood  a  little  behind  the  laurels  at  the  entrance.  In 
the  intense  feeling  dominating  each  heart  Stephen's  foot- 
steps on  the  turf  had  not  been  noticed ;  and  when  he 
answered  boldly  the  squire's  assertion,  he  took  every  one 
by  surprise. 

"  I  can  threep  for  mysen,  squire  ;  and  if  Lance  thinks 
differently  to  his  father,  he  is  a  man  now  and  he  has  a 
right  to  his  awn  thoughts.  Good-morning,  Miss  Ather- 
ton.  I  saw  you  and  my  Lance  walking  together,  and 
a  bonny  couple  you  made.  The  eye  not  charmed  with 
you  has  no  light  in  it.  Come,  squire  ;  if  you  will  walk 
forward  a  bit  I  hev  a  friendly  offer  to  make.  Why 
should  we  bark  and  bite  at  each  other? " 

"  Mr.  Leigh,  you  have  done  your  worst  to  Squire 
Atherton.  Your  mill  is  an  offense  to  me,  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  and  your  offer  of  friendship  is  insult 
added  to  wrong." 

"  Well,  squire,  one  may  bid,  but  it  takes  two  to  make 
a  bargain." 

"  Sir,  I  want  to  make  no  bargain  with  you." 

"  Mebbe,  now,  our  children  may  hev  more  sense.  I 
notice  that  my  Lance  is  varry  fond  of  being  near  Ather- 
ton Court.  The  apple  is  not  far  from  the  apple-tree, 
is  it,  squire  ?  " 

"  Speak  for  your  own  child,  Mr.  Leigh.  My  daughter 
is  beyond  your  consideration." 

"  No  offense  meant,  squire.  I  am  used  to  speaking 
plainly.  There  are  no  mouse-corners  in  my  mind." 

"  Your  mind  is  your  own,  sir.  I  do  not  interfere  with 
it!" 


40  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Then  he  looked  toward  Francesca,  and  saw  that  Lanw 
celot  was  talking  to  her  in  hurried,  eager  tones — plead- 
ing,  apologizing,  saying  he  hardly  knew  what. 

"  Francesca!" 

The  one  word,  uttered  by  the  angry  father,  was  in- 
stantly obeyed.  Francesca  bowed  slightly  to  Lance- 
lot, and  went  to  her  father's  side.  He  stood  a  mo- 
ment looking  at  the  two  Leighs,  then  his  fine  breeding 
asserted  itself.  He  lifted  his  hat,  gave  his  daughter 
his  arm,  and  with  a  forced  deliberation  turned  into  the 
park. 

Francesca  had  obeyed  him,  but  her  heart  was  in  re- 
bellion ;  and  as  they  walked  homeward  and  the  squire 
muttered  to  himself  and  kicked  the  pebbles  at  his  feet 
with  a  meaning  indignation,  she  gradually  began  to  ex- 
press her  anger,  in  most  unequivocal  words. 

41  You  treated  me  very  badly,  father.  I  do  not  like 
to  be  called,  as  if  I  was  a  dog,  '  Francesca!  ' " 

And  she  imitated  the  dictatorial  tone  of  the  squire, 
with  temper  that  made  the  one  sweet  word  an  intoler- 
able offense. 

"  Thou  should  not  call  thyself  in  any  such  way.  I 
never  did  so." 

"  Yes,  you  did,  father.  And  you  behaved  badly  to 
the  Leighs.  Suppose  they  havj  built  a  mill  near  us! 
They  bought  the  land  to  build  it  on.  All  Yorkshire 
does  not  belong  *o  us.  A  great  many  county  families 
have  had  to  put  up  with  mills  near  them.  In  the  long 
run,  they  find  the  mill  a  great  benefit.  Mr.  Leigh 
wants  to  be  friendly." 

"  Be  quiet.  Leigh  friendly !  I  wonder  if  the  world 
is  coming  to  an  end!  I  wonder  if  I  am  Squire  Ather- 


THE   SQUIRE  AND    THE   SPINNER.  41 

ton  or  not!  I  wonder  if  thou  art  really  Francesca 
Atherton!  Everything  is  upside  down,  I  think!" 

"  Mr.  Lancelot  Leigh  met  me  in  the  birch  walk.  I 
suppose  he  had  as  much  right  there  as  I  had.  He  got 
off  his  horse,  and  walked  with  me  to  the  park  gates. 
And  we  talked  of  Wordsworth  and  the  birds  and  such 
like." 

"  He  had  no  right  to  get  off  his  horse.  And  '  birds 
and  Wordsworth  and  such  like '  are  not  for  thee  and 
him  to  talk  about.  The  '  weather '  was  far  enough  for 
him  to  go — and  too  far.  I  know  what  '  Wordsworth 
and  such  like  '  means.  I  know  men  send  poetry  where 
good  honest  prose  would  not  dare  to  venture.  If  ever 
a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  get  together,  they 
begin  talking  poetry.  It  is  their  way  of  flying  round  a 
candle." 

"  I  never  knew  you  to  talk  vulgarly  before,  father." 

"  My  lass,  every  one  gets  down  to  their  vulgar  tongue 
when  their  heart  is  hot  with  insult  and  wrong.  I  think 
thou  behaved  very  badly,  talking  poetry  and  birds  and 
such  like  with  a  spinner's  son.  Ask  thy  Aunt  Loida." 

"  Aunt  Loida  will  say  I  did  nothing  wrong." 

"Thou  wilt  find  out  different." 

And  greatly  to  Francesca's  amazement,  Loida  took 
the  squire's  part,  decidedly. 

"The  lady  of  Atherton  Manor,"  she  said,  "ought 
not  to  walk  with  young  men  in  the  lanes  and  by-ways. 
If  Mr.  Leigh  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  continued,  with 
mild  indignation,  "  he  should  have  called  here.  He  had 
no  right  to  get  off  his  horse  and  impose  his  company 
on  you." 

"  I  liked  his  company.     It  was  no  imposition.     I  am 


42  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

so  weary  of  this  life.  The  days  come  and  go,  and  they 
are  all  the  same.  Oh,  how  I  wish  something  strange 
would  happen ! " 

"  It  is  very  foolish,  Francesca,  to  wish  to  see  beyond 
your  horizon.  And  wishes  are  like  bits  of  stained  glass : 
you  see  nothing  through  them  in  its  true  colors." 

"  Aunt  Loida,  I  have  heard  that  you  were  once  very 
fond  of  company  and  gay  doings.  How  can  you  live 
here?" 

"Ah,  Francesca!  When  our  joys  die,  they  find  no 
grave  for  us.  We  must  live  on,  just  as  the  rose-tree 
lives,  though  all  its  flowers  be  broken  off.  The  spring 
brings  roses  again  if  the  tree  lives  on ;  perhaps  I  am 
waiting  for  life's  second  spring.  If  you  are  tired  of  this 
quiet  home,  however,  you  may  soon  have  a  change. 
Jane  Idle  is  going  to  be  married,  and  we  are  going  to 
Idleholme." 

"  How  glad  I  am!      Whom  is  Jane  going  to  marry  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know  the  gentleman.  He  is  called  Crewe. 
Jane  has  a  brother,  I  believe  ? " 

"  I  have  heard  talk  about  him.  His  name  is  Almund. 
He  is  very  clever.  She  used  to  boast  of  him  when  we 
were  at  school.  But  all  the  girls  boasted  of  their 
brothers.  Shall  I  have  some  new  dresses,  Aunt  Loida  ? " 

"  Some  new  dresses  will  be  very  necessary.  Come 
and  let  us  look  through  your  wardrobe." 

No  better  way  could  have  been  devised  to  soothe  the 
irritation  of  the  morning,  and  in  the  discussion  of  toilet 
fineries  Lancelot  was  for  the  time  forgotten. 

But  Lance  was  not  able  to  forget.  His  ride  home 
was  rendered  bitter,  not  only  by  a  sense  of  personal 
defeat  and  humiliation,  but  by  the  anger  of  his  father. 


THE   SQUIRE  AND    THE  SPINNER.  43 

Stephen  Leigh  felt  all  the  reasonable  indignation  of 
those  whose  gift  is  flung  back  in  their  face. 

"  I  came  up  with  a  kind  heart,"  he  said,  "  and  I  think 
mysen  as  good  a  man  as  Rashleigh  Atherton.  I  fancy 
he  looks  down  on  us  a  bit,  but  we  can  count  Leighs 
with  Athertons  any  day.  And  if  it  comes  to  brass,  we 
can  put  down  a  hundred  sovereigns  to  one  that  any 
Yorkshire  squire  hes!  Ay — any  of  them!  " 

"  I  have  set  my  heart  on  marrying  Miss  Atherton, 
father." 

"  Well,  then,  thou  shall  marry  her,  if  thou  hes  set  thy 
heart  on  her.  Eh,  Lance,  iverything  can  be  bought, 
but  day  and  night." 

"  I  am  afraid  your  interference  this  morning  was  a 
mistake.  You  do  not  know  anything  about  such  men 
as  Squire  Atherton,  and  the  society  he  lives  in." 

"  Niver  thee  mind.  I  know  all  about  investments 
and  percentages;  and  though  love  may  do  a  great 
deal,  money  does  iverything.  By  all  I  could  make  out, 
that  young  lady  seemed  well  suited  with  thee.  I  thought 
you  were  walking  varry  loving-like  together,  and  I  came 
up  ready  to  settle  iverything  plain  and  square,  for  I  hate 
any  back-stair  work." 

"  I  fear,  however,  that  I  have  lost  her  forever." 

"  Nay,  I  wouldn't  fear  anything.  Hope  is  as  cheap 
as  despair." 

"  The  squire  is  beyond  calculation,  and — " 

"  He  is  beyond  pleasing,  if  that  is  what  ta  means.  I 
don't  blame  him  varry  much.  He  sees  that  he'll  soon 
be  nobody  where  he  hes  been  iverybody.  What  is  the 
squire  to  the  loom-lord  who  runs  a  thousand  spindles 
and  keeps  a  whole  village  thriving  and  busy  ?  " 


44  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  The  squire  is  an  old  friend  to  the  village." 

"  My  lad,  it  isn't  the  old  friend,  but  the  rich  friend. 
Poor  folk  cannot  afford  to  know  poor  folks.  That  is 
it." 

"  But  even  so,  why  should  the  loom-lord  put  down 
the  squire?  There  is  room  for  both." 

"  Nay,  there  is  not.  If  two  apples  grow  on  one  twig, 
and  the  twig  is  too  small  for  both  of  them,  the  weakest 
is  bound  to  fall  to  the  ground.  Atherton  Village  is  too 
small  for  two  masters,  and  the  master  that  hes  the 
'  wherewith '  will  hev  the  service.  Now,  then,  let  that 
proud  girl  go.  Thy  mother  is  fain  for  thee  to  marry 
Maria  Crossley.  Couldn't  thou  fancy  her  for  a  wife  ? " 

"  I  will  marry  Miss  Atherton,  or  die  a  bachelor  for 
her  sake." 

"  Well,  I  niver!  Thou  is  a  fool!  And  I  don't  know 
whether  I  ought  to  answer  thee  according  to  thy  folly 
or  not." 

Lancelot  laughed. 

"  You  are  in  no  greater  strait  than  Solomon  was, 
father.  First,  he  says :  'Answer  not  a  fool  according  to 
his  folly,  lest  thou  be,  also,  like  unto  him.'  Then  again 
he  says :  '  Answer  a  fool  according  to  his  folly,  lest  he 
be  wise  in  his  own  conceit.' " 

"  Well,  then,  what  dost  thou  make  by  that  f  " 

"  I  suppose  Solomon  was  balancing  between  the 
homeopathy  and  the  allopathy  of  morals." 

"  Keep  thy  jokes  to  thysen,  Lance,  and  see  if  thou  can 
find  sense  enough  to  get  a  new  sweetheart.  Maria  is  a 
varry  pretty  lass." 

"  There  is  only  one  love  in  the  world  for  me,  father." 

"Tip-top  nonsense!" 


THE   SQUIRE  AND    THE   SPINNER.  45 

And  the  old  man  looked  at  his  son  with  that  con- 
temptuous pity  age  often  bestows  on  a  youth  who 
throws  away  a  fine  appetite  on  a  dinner  of  one  course. 
They  were  at  the  stable-door,  and  as  Stephen  slowly 
got  out  of  his  stirrups,  he  added : 

"  It  is  not  hard  to  forget,  Lance.  Keep  away  from 
Atherton  for  a  week  or  two.  Out  of  sight  is  out  of 
mind,  my  lad." 

But  while  the  father  was  giving  orders  about  the 
weary  horses,  and  talking  of  oats  and  buckles  and  sad- 
dles, Lance  was  walking  through  the  leafless  garden, 
singing  softly  to  himself : 

"  '  That  out  of  sight  is  out  of  mind, 
Is  true  of  most  we  leave  behind  ; 
It  is  not  true,  nor  can  be  true, 
My  own,  my  only  love,  of  you!'  " 


CHAPTER   IV. 

MARRYING    AND    PROMISE     OF    MARRIAGE. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mist  forever 

With  a  sweet  emotion. 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 

All  things  by  a  law  divine, 
"  In  one  another's  being  mingle, 

Why  not  I  with  thine?" 

HOWEVER  careful  we  are  in  the  arrangement  of 
our  plans,  something,  and  often  the  most  impor- 
tant thing,  escapes  consideration.  Squire  Atherton  in 
encouraging  the  visit  of  his  daughter  to  Idleholme  never 
reflected  on  the  possibility  of  its  being  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Leigh  Farm,  nor  yet  that  the  two  families  might 
be  acquainted  with  each  other.  Yet  both  of  these  cir- 
cumstances existed,  and  they  were  made  evident  to 
Francesca  a  few  days  after  her  arrival  at  Idleholme. 

As  her  stay  was  likely  to  extend  over  some  weeks,  she 
was  accompanied  by  her  own  riding-horses  and  groom ; 
and  one  morning,  when  every  one  appeared  to  be  ex- 
clusively occupied  with  affairs  relating  to  the  approach- 
ing marriage,  she  determined  on  a  gallop  across  the 
wold,  attended  only  by  her  servant.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  a  life  so  quiet  and  so  full  of  orderly  refine- 
ment that  the  hurry  and  laughter,  the  endless  demands, 
the  running  about,  the  sense  of  feasting,  and  of  prepara- 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    47 

tion  for  more  feasting,  had  become  excessively  tiresome 
to  her.  She  was  nervous  and  fretful,  and  longing  for 
the  peace  of  Nature,  even  though  Nature  appeared  to 
be  hostile. 

For  the  weather  was  gray  and  wintry,  and  the  black, 
low-hanging  clouds  portended  a  coming  storm.  Jane 
protested  and  Miss  Loida  advised,  but  Francesca  was 
not  to  be  moved  from  her  desire. 

"  If  I  do  not  ride  this  morning  I  cannot  dance  to- 
night," she  said.  "  I  am  tired  of  human  beings.  Let 
me  take  my  own  way  now,  and  I  will  take  every  one's 
way  afterward." 

She  had  been,  indeed,  singularly  affected  by  daily 
contact  for  a  week  with  Jane's  brother,  a  young  man  of 
distinctly  modern  type.  Almund  Idle  had  been  every- 
where and  had  seen  everything.  He  could  play  bill- 
iards, and  quote  Horace,  and  make  money  on  the  stock 
exchange. .  Small,  alert,  and  rather  handsome,  he  was 
also  polished  and  exceedingly  proper;  there  were  no 
angles  about  him,  and  he  had  no  illusions. 

"  I  am  not  at  ease  in  his  company,"  Francesca  said 
to  her  aunt.  "  If  there  is  any  thought  in  my  heart,  I 
need  not  put  it  into  words ;  he  is  sure  to  know  all  about 
it." 

"  Your  father  thinks  very  well  of  Almund  Idle.  He 
will  be  a  great  man,  Francesca,  and  I  think  he  is  fond 
of  ladies'  society." 

"  He  is  very  fond  of  his  sister  Jane,  and  she  is  as 
clever  as  her  brother." 

"  He  was  saying  yesterday  that  Shakespeare  had  a 
miraculous  intelligence  in  making  Hamlet  sisterless. 
He  thought  Hamlet  failed  in  being  a  hero  because  he 


48  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

had  no  sister  to  help  him.  His  mother  was  not  good, 
and  Ophelia — withdrew,  and  there  was  no  sister  Jane 
near.  That  was  the  way  he  put  it." 

Francesca  was  buttoning  her  habit,  and  she  tossed 
her  beautiful  head  a  little  scornfully  as  she  answered 
Miss  Loida : 

"  It  was  Hamlet's  own  fault  that  Ophelia  withdrew. 
I  heard  Jane  teasing  her  brother  yesterday  about  some 
young  lady  she  called  Lydia.  I  hope  he  is  engaged.  I 
should  feel  so  much  more  at  ease  with  him  if  I  knew 
he  was  human  enough  to  be  in  love." 

Then  she  kissed  her  aunt  and  went  out  into  the  grim 
winter  day ;  for  no  scenery  in  England  is  sadder  and 
wilder  than  that  of  the  West  Riding  in  winter  weather. 
The  bleak  range  of  low  hills  before  her  was  partitioned 
into  fields  by  leagues  and  leagues  of  stone  walls,  and 
here  and  there  she  came  upon  a  dreary  village  or  a  des- 
olate mansion  standing  forlorn  on  the  bare  wold. 

The  uncouth  manner,  and  the  strong,  rude  dialect  of 
the  quarrymen  she  met  was  disconcerting.  They  stared 
at  her  with  sullen  ill-will,  or  looked  down  upon  the 
earth  as  they  passed  her.  The  very  sheep  lifted  their 
heads  as  if  annoyed  at  her  intrusion,  and  watched  her 
suspiciously  as  she  rode  away  into  the  gray  dull  damp- 
ness enveloping  the  landscape. 

It  was  a  relief  to  come  suddenly  upon  a  little  church 
set  in  a  grove  of  yew  trees.  There  were  a  number  of 
carriages  around  it,  and  some  rosy-cheeked  children : 
"It  wer'  a  wedding  doo-ment."  They  were  waiting  for 
bride  coins,  and  in  the  interval  spelling,  across  the 
churchyard  gate,  a  name  and  date  across  a  marble  slab 
standing  white  and  lonely  near  by. 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE,    49 

She  read  it  to  them : 

"'You  shall  pray  for  the  souls  of  Bernard  and  Margaret 
Dysart,  who  died  A.D.  1600.'  " 

Then  she  went  thoughtfully  onward.  There  was  a 
nearness  to  heaven  in  the  words ;  a  sure  belief  that  God's 
mercy  for  departed  souls  was  still  to  be  reached  by 
human  intercession,  that  gave  to  her  a  singular  serenity.. 
The  world  seemed  instantly  another  place.  She  began 
to  pray  for  the  souls  of  Bernard  and  Margaret  Dysart ; 
and  the  act  made  her  realize  something  of  that  personal 
communication  with  God  which  Adam  lost  and  which 
Protestants  reject. 

The  few  solemn  words  lifted  her  above  the  dreeping 
atmosphere,  and  then — so  startling  are  the  antitheses  of 
life — out  rang  the  wedding-chimes — 

"  Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
Rang  the  beautiful  old  chimes." 

And,  as  she  listened,  the  wind  changed,  and  snow  began 
to  fall.  She  was  at  least  six  miles  from  Idleholme,  and 
she  looked  around  for  some  house  in  which  she  could 
take  shelter. 

"  If  we  could  find  a  cottage,  Peel,"  she  said  to  her 
groom,  "  I  would  remain  there  until  you  went  back  and 
sent  the  carriage  for  me.  I  do  not  like  to  ride  through 
a  snow-storm." 

She  was  really  thinking  how  uncomfortable  it  would 
be  for  every  one  if  she  took  cold  and  was  ill  during  the 
wedding  festivities. 

"  I  should  think  there  was  a  house  behind  yonder 
plantation  of  firs,  Miss  Atherton.  It  is  not  more  than 
half  a  mile  away." 


50  LOVE  FOR  AAr  HOUR. 

She  looked  a  moment  at  the  dark  spot  in  the  gray 
atmosphere,  and  galloped  toward  it.  The  groom's  sup- 
position was  correct ;  it  was  the  screen  on  one  side  for 
a  large  rambling  mansion,  whose  frontage  and  gardens 
faced  the  other  way.  Francesca  rode  up  to  what  ap- 
peared to  be  the  main  entrance,  but  she  could  obtain 
no  recognition,  and  she  directed  her  horse  to  a  large  door 
at  the  other  end  of  the  building. 

Here  she  was  met  by  a  middle-aged  woman,  who  not 
very  willingly  acceded  to  her  request  for  shelter  until  a 
carriage  could  be  sent  for.  It  was  evident  the  woman 
felt  no  pleasure  in  granting  the  hospitality  requested ; 
but  hospitality  is  the  native  instinct  of  a  Yorkshire 
woman,  and  the  circumstances  which  kill  it  altogether 
must,  indeed,  be  unusual  and  unavoidable.  Indeed, 
after  the  first  reluctance  had  been  surmounted,  Fran- 
cesca's  hostess  softened  in  a  very  marked  manner.  She 
would  not  permit  the  groom  to  'have  the  extra  care  of 
the  emptied  horse. 

"  Thou  wilt  hev  enough  to  get  thysen  and  thy  awn 
horse  over  the  moor,"  she  said.  "  I'll  hev  the  young 
lady's  sent  to  manger.  Ride  hard,  or  thou  mebbe  won't 
ride  at  all." 

Then  she  led  Francesca  into  the  house.  It  was  a  re- 
markable old  place,  and  Francesca  won  her  way  into 
the  woman's  heart  by  her  frank  expression  of  interest 
and  delight. 

"Thou  should  see  it  in  summer-time,"  she  said, 
proudly.  "  Such  a  place  for  bees  and  birds  and  fruit 
and  flowers  isn't  in  Yorkshire !  No,  not  in  all  Yorkshire. 
Come  in,  thou  art  freely  welcome." 

They  went  into  a  long,  low  parlor  with  deep,  sunk 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    51 

windows  and  a  waist-high  wainscot  of  black  oak. 
There  were  heavy  oak  beams  across  the  roof,  and  Dutch 
cupboards  in  the  corners,  full  of  Royal  Derby  china. 
There  were  some  old  pictures  upon  the  walls,  and  a 
sword  over  the  door  that  had  been  used  on  Edgehill  and 
at  Marston  Moor.  The  furniture  was  massive  and 
homely,  but  it  had  an  air  no  money  could  buy. 

"  The  Leighs  hev  lived  here,  young  lady,  for  genera- 
tions on  generations,"  said  Francesca's  entertainer. 
"  We  niver  did  count  oursens  county  people,  but  we  are 
mebbe  a  bit  better  than  some  that  do.  I  hev  a  husband 
that  is  all  for  new  ways  of  living ;  his  awn  father  and 
mother  wouldn't  know  his  thoughts,  and  I  hev  a  son 
who  couldn't  abide  to  live  in  the  old  house  as  it  was. 
His  father  and  him  hed  a  new  part  built,  and  they  hev 
satin  and  gold  chairs — gilt  I  mean,  honey,  for  all  the 
gold  is  gilt  these  days.  And  they  hev  books  and  pict- 
ures and  music-making  instruments  and  ivery  other  kind 
of  nonsense.  But  I  live  here.  I  live  here  in  the  old 
rooms  where  my  people  lived  and  died  before  me. 
They  went  to  heaven  out  of  them,  and  I  am  not  sure 
they  like  heaven  as  well.  For  they  come  back  here. 
Yes,  they  do!" 

She  made  the  statement  with  such  solemn  conviction 
that  Francesca  never  thought  of  disputing  it. 

"  I  hev  seen  Grandfather  Leigh  twice  this  week. 
Husband  says  I  am  dreaming.  But  I  told  him  it  was 
not  varry  likely  I  would  be  ironing  fine  laces  or  count- 
ing up  my  dairy  book  and  dreaming  of  Mark  Leigh  at 
the  same  time.  Was  it,  now  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  it  was  not." 

"  Well,  I  was  doing  up  a  bit  of  Brussels  last  Wednes- 


52  LOl'E  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

day,  and  in  he  came.  I  saw  him  as  fair  as  I  see  you.  He 
went  straight  to  that  cupboard,  and  began  to  move  the 
tea-cups,  and  I  said,  '  Grandfather! '  and  he  was  gone." 

"  Why  did  he  go  ?  Why  did  he  not  tell  you,  or  show 
you,  what  he  wanted  ?  " 

"  Nay,  my  lass!  Dead  men  seem  to  be  as  contrary 
and  senseless  as  living  ones.  Grandfather  niver  would 
tell  his  women  anything  while  he  lived,  and  he  does  not 
appear  to  be  any  more  open  in  his  mind  now  that  he 
is  dead.  He  came  again  on  Saturday — just  at  the  edge 
of  the  night.  I  was  adding  up  the  milk  and  butter,  and 
he  stood  right  there,  by  that  table,  and  watched  me.  I 
said :  '  Wait  a  minute,  do,  grandfather ! '  and  I  went  to 
call  my  husband,  but  when  we  came  back  he  was  gone. 
Stephen — that  is  my  husband — said  'it  was  a  varry 
queer  thing.'  And  I  am  sure  it  was.  I  thought  Stephen 
would  hev  laughed  at  me,  but  he  didn't ;  he  just  looked 
sharply  in  my  face,  and  went  out  again.  There  was  a 
'  feeling '  in  the  room  that  made  one's  flesh  creep  and 
turn  cold,  and  Stephen  said,  '  It's  a  varry  queer  thing,' 
and  went  away." 

"  Have  you  lived  long  here  ?  " 

"  All  my  life — mebbe  longer." 

She  was  sitting  by  a  little  table  at  Francesca's  side, 
and  she  appeared  suddenly  to  remember  herself. 

"  Why-a,  whativer  am  I  thinking  of  ? "  she  asked. 
"  Thou  wilt  hev  a  cheese-cake  and  a  glass  of  milk,  I 
dare  say.  Or  if  ta  likes  a  bit  of  Yorkshire  pie,  I  hev 
one  that  cannot  be  beat." 

She  served  Francesca  with  a  Yorkshire  plenteousness, 
and,  as  the  girl  smiled  her  thanks,  she  said,  question- 
ingly : 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    53' 

"  You  tell  me  that  you  have  lived  in  this  house  all  your 
life — may  be  longer.  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Dost  ta  really  think  one  lifetime,  however  long  it  be, 
can  give  us  enough  of  this  world?  Nay,  my  lass. 
There  is  a  deal  more  to  see  and  to  hear,  to  learn  and 
to  feel,  than  can  be  got  through  with  in  threescore  and 
ten  years." 

Francesca  looked  curiously  at  the  woman.  She  was 
slowly  rubbing  the  polished  blade  of  a  knife  with  a  fine 
napkin.  Her  interest  appeared  to  be  settled  on  the 
homely  duty,  but  she  was  thinking  of  eternity.  When 
she  lifted  her  eyes,  they  were  full  of  dreams  and  specu- 
lations. 

"You  must  love  this  old  house,  then,  Mrs.  Leigh?" 

"Love  it!  If  it  was  a  needs-be,  I  would  glue  its 
stones  together  with  my  heart's  blood — ay,  my  lass, 
with  the  heart-blood  of  them  that  are  dearer  to  me  than 
my  own  life.  What  is  this  life  ?  "  she  asked;  with  a  con- 
temptuous flip  of  the  napkin  in  her  hand.  "  Only  a 
moment  out  of  eternity.  But  my  talk  is  all  nonsense 
to  thee,  I  dare  say,  and  I  wish  my  son  Lance  was  at 
home.  He  knows  how  to  talk — ay,  to  the  best  of  peo- 
ple. But  there  is  a  wedding  on  hand  not  far  off,  and 
if  you  go  to  a  wedding  you  hev  to  take  a  gift  in  your 
hand,  or  a  cold  welcome  would  be  given,  I'm  sure." 

"  When  I  am  married  I  will  not  accept  gifts  from  my 
guests,"  said  Francesca. 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I  was  thee.  It  is  a  mean  doo,  and 
varry  few  gifts  come  with  a  good  will." 

Then  a  servant  entered  with  some  complaint,  and 
Mrs.  Leigh  left  Francesca  alone.  The  girl  ate  her 
cheese-cake  and  drank  her  milk,  and  sat  before  the  fire 


54  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

musing,  until  she  fell  asleep.  It  was  so  strange  to  be 
in  Lancelot's  home  and  to  be  conversing  with  his 
mother.  In  all  her  simple  life  nothing  so  like  an  ad- 
venture had  happened  to  her.  She  had  discovered,  also, 
that  there  must  be  an  acquaintance  between  the  Idles 
and  the  Leighs,  or  the  latter  would  not  have  been  asked 
to  Jane  Idle's  wedding,  nor  would  Lancelot  have  felt 
himself  obligated  in  the  matter  of  bride-gifts.  And  she 
thought  of  these  things  until  she  slept,  and  the  thoughts 
in  her  mind  turned  to  dreams. 

When  she  awoke,  Mrs.  Leigh  took  her  all  through 
the  house ;  for,  in  spite  of  her  affected  indifference  to 
the  modern  additions,  she  had  a  certain  half-scornful 
pride  in  the  gilt  and  satin  and  the  music-making  instru- 
ments. 

"  This  is  my  son's  parlor,"  said  the  proud  mother ; 
and  Francesca  stepped  with  a  shy  pride  just  within  the 
portal. 

It  was  a  very  interesting  room,  well  lighted,  full  of 
books  and  pictures  and  beautiful  things.  Standing 
boldly  out  between  two  windows  there  was  a  grand 
piano ;  it  was  open  and  strewn  with  loose  music.  Mrs. 
Leigh  touched  the  notes  in  a  nervous  manner. 

"  It  is  a  varry  fine  instrument,"  she  said.  "  It  cost  a 
lot ;  and  Lance  does  take  a  deal  of  joy  out  of  it.  I 
wish  you  could  hear  him  play  and  sing.  My  word! 
He  can  charm  the  tears  and  smiles  out  of  the  hardest 
heart." 

Mechanically  Francesca  walked  toward  the  instrument, 
and  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  sheet  of  written  music  above 
the  keys.  It  was  a  song,  and  the  name  was  "  Fran- 
cesca!." She  glanced  down  the  page.  Many  words 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    55 

were  there,  but  she  could  only  see  that  one  word 
"Francesca! "  and  it  sang  itself  like  music  in  her  heart. 

Yet  she  was  glad  to  escape,  for  she  had  almost  the 
sense  of  having  been  dishonorable.  She  had  surprised 
a  secret,  but  it  pained  her,  just  as  surprising  a  mother- 
bird  off  her  nest  had  often  pained  her.  It  was  a  relief 
to  hide  away  in  the  corner  of  her  carriage,  and  shut  her 
eyes,  as  if  by  doing  so  she  could  shut  her  discovery 
from  herself. 

It  was  a  little  adventure  also  to  Mrs.  Leigh,  for  she 
lived  even  more  out  of  the  world  than  Francesca  did ; 
and  a  beautiful  young  maiden  eating  a  cheese-cake  at 
her  hearth  was  very  like  a  fairy  visit.  She  could  hardly 
wait  until  Lance  had  removed  his  wrap  to  tell  her  news. 
While  he  was  doing  so  he  was  talking  rapidly. 

"  I  have  had  quite  a  pleasant  day,  mother,"  he  said. 
"  I  saw  all  kinds  of  pretty  things,  and  I  met  Mary 
Taylor.  Do  you  remember  the  little  girl?  She  is 
grown  into  a  beauty.  It  was  worth  going  to  Leeds  to 
see  her." 

"  If  ta  hed  stayed  at  home,  thou  would  hev  seen  a  ten 
times  bigger  beauty.  There  was  a  young  lady  here  this 
morning  that  could  take  the  shine  out  of  any  beauty  I 
hev  ever  seen." 

"  A  young  lady  here ! " 

"  To  be  sure.  The  snow  sent  her  to  shelter,  and 
she  staid  with  me  while  her  groom  went  for  a  carriage. 
I  gave  her  a  bit  to  eat  and  talked  to  her.  A  more 
sensible  lass  I  niver  saw — nor  more  agreeable.  I  took 
her  all  through  the  house,  and  she  said  ivery  room  in  it 
was  as  nice  as  could  be — except  thy  room,  Lance.  She 
said  nothing  about  thy  room,  and  I  do  think  she 


56  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

thought  as  I  do  :  that  thy  piano  stands  in  a  varry  much- 
in-the-way  place." 

"  What  was  she  like,  mother  ?     Any  one  we  know  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  know  nobody  like  her.  Her  face  was  just 
sweet  and  bonny  and  loving.  I  took  no  notice  of  the 
color  of  her  hair  or  the  make  of  her  clothes.  She  came 
on  horseback,  and  she  went  away  in  a  carriage — dne  of 
Squire  Idle's,  or  I  am  much  mistaken." 

"  Then  it  was  some  young  lady  who  is  staying  there 
for  the  marriage." 

Having  given  this  opinion,  he  was  silent.  He  was 
thinking  of  Francesca,  but  not  dreaming  that  she  had 
been  in  his  home.  Indeed,  no  suspicion  of  the  fact  ever 
came  to  him  until  Jane  Idle's  wedding-day ;  for  there 
was  a  heavy  fall  of  snow  and  much  bad  weather,  and  it 
so  happened  that  Lance  did  not  call  at  Idleholme  pre- 
viously. 

And  it  was  one  of  the  charms  of  Francesca's  sweet 
nature  that  her  love  was  not  of  that  selfish  kind  which 
breeds  jealousy  and  suspicion  of  slight  or  unkindness. 
The  purest  affection  "  thinketh  no  evil ; "  and  Francesca 
did  not  mentally  pout  because  her  lover  had  no  super- 
natural intuition  of  her  presence  in  his  neighborhood. 
Every  day  she  hoped  a  little ;  every  night  she  thought : 

"  How  sorry  he  will  be  when  he  finds  out  we  have 
missed  another  day." 

She  heard  him  frequently  spoken  of.  Jane  even 
wondered  at  his  absence. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  to  her  brother,  "  you  and  Lance 
Leigh  have  had  another  altercation  ?  " 

"  We  had  a  little  argument  about  Lydia  Thornton — 
but  then,  I  enjoy  Lance's  arguments," 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    57 

Almund  was  not  inclined  to  discuss  Lance  Leigh  with 
his  sister.  He  knew  Jane  admired  him  very  much,  and 
he  was  averse  to  making  Lance  a  point  of  interest  in 
any  conversation  when  Francesca  was  present.  For  he 
admired  Francesca,  and  the  idea  of  her  as  his  future 
wife  was  growing  sweetly  into  his  life.  He  had  been 
informed  that  a  marriage  between  himself  and  Miss 
Atherton  would  be  agreeable  both  to  Squire  Atherton 
and  to  his  own  father ;  and  he  knew  well  that  an  alli- 
ance with  Lydia  Thornton  would  not  be  agreeable  to 
his  family.  Balancing  the  two  loves  in  his  mind  was 
neither  a  difficult  nor  a  disagreeable  mental  exercise. 

For  his  love,  in  any  case,  would  be  a  conscious  and 
well-considered  act.  The  elaborate  and  long-continued 
education  of  an  English  gentleman  had  destroyed  in 
him  all  spontaneity  of  feeling.  He  had  no  illusions,  and 
he  was  accustomed  to  challenge  his  emotions  just  as  he 
challenged  his  opinions.  Both  had  to  show  good 
grounds  for  their  existence. 

He  put  a  stop  to  Jane's  discussion  of  Lancelot  by 
taking  Francesca  to  walk  upon  the  covered  terrace. 
He  had  no  objections  to  talk  about  the  young  man, 
but  he  wished  to  avoid  Jane's  comments  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  seen  Mr.  Leigh  ? "  he  said. 
"  He  has  not  called  here  since  you  came.  Lance  Leigh 
and  I  do  not  always  agree ;  indeed,  we  very  often  dis- 
agree. Mr.  Leigh  is  like  his  class — emotional.  But 
you  would  enjoy  his  music.  No  one  finds  any  fault  with 
him  at  the  piano.  If  he  was  not  rich,  he  could  make 
his  living  with  his  love-songs.  His  voice  is  what  they 
call  '  so  sympathetic.'  I  have  heard  that  he  writes 


58  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR, 

poetry.  I  dare  say  he  does.  Fellows  with  his  type  of 
tact  very  often  do." 

"  '  His  type  of  face '  is  then  unusual  ? " 

"It  is  regularly  handsome.  Byron,  Keats,  and  Shel- 
ley, and  men  of  that  kind,  have  those  regular  faces." 

"There  are  so  many  ugly  and  so  many  sharp  faces 
now.  I  should  think  some  regular  faces  would  be  pleas- 
ant. Have  you  noticed  the  men  in  a  big  city,  how  very 
much  alike  they  look — as  if  they  were  all  going  to  mar- 
ket ?  Sharp  noses,  sharp  chins,  calculating  eyes,  and  an 
expression  of  '  cheat  or  be  cheated.'  Whenever  I  go  to 
Leeds  or  Bradford  that  is  the  way  the  men's  faces  strike 
me." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  We  must  have  money.  Every 
door  in  life  is  barred  with  gold." 

"  Oh  no,  it  is  not!  Ability  opens  the  door  to  power, 
and  learning  opens  it  to  honor.  Friendship  opens  it  to 
kindness." 

"  And  love  opens  to — gold." 

"  No!    I  am  sure  not.     Love  opens  to  love." 

He  looked  at  her  glowing  face  and  shining  eyes,  and 
felt  the  door  of  his  own  heart  stirring.  For  a  moment 
or  two  he  had  an  envious  greed  of  those  who  could  take 
Love  to  their  arms,  and  count  him  lord  of  all.  But  he 
was  far  too  polished  to  give  such  an  elemental  emotion 
tolerance.  It  belonged  to  an  elder  world,  to  half-civil- 
ized societies,  to  natures  which  could  be  pleased  like 
children,  with  sophisms  and  phantasms  and  fallacies  of 
the  feelings.  For  Almund  Idle  saw  no  mystical  veil 
shadowing  some  unseen  wonderful  shekinah.  He  stood 
at  that  point  where  men  do  not  try  to  lift  the  veil,  be- 
cause they  are  sure  there  is  nothing  behind  it. 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    59 

Yet  he  listened  to  Francesca's  enthusiasms  with  a  kind 
of  delight.  A  wife  with  such  candors,  such  capabilities 
for  loving,  such  sweet,  flattering  ideas  of  masculine  su- 
periority, might  be  a  far  more  charming  and  satisfactory 
life-companion  than  a  girl  like  Lydia  Thornton — a  girl 
who  saw  through  all  the  shams  of  life  as  clearly  as  he 
himself  did. 

After  this  he  paid  a  great  deal  of  attention  to  Fran- 
cesca.  He  praised  her  beauty  and  admired  her  dresses, 
with  all  the  curious  frankness  of  the  modern  lover ;  and 
felt  her  old-fashioned  vivid  blushes  raise  a  very  old- 
fashioned  vivid  delight  in  what  he  was  pleased  to  call 
"his  heart." 

He  had  fits  of  reservations  and  fits  of  absolute  surren- 
der many  times  a  day,  until  the  wedding  morning.  Then 
he  resolved  to  let  his  liking  for  Francesca  grow  to  any 
comfortable  condition  of  love  that  it  was  capable  of. 
His  last  reservation  was  withdrawn.  It  was  necessary 
to  his  perfect  satisfaction  that  the  public  should  indorse 
his  choice,  and  Francesca  was  acknowledged  to  be  the 
fairest  of  all  the  fair  women  present.  The  bride  was  in- 
deed the  center  of  interest,  of  kind  speculation,  and  of 
good  wishes ;  but  Francesca  was  the  center  of  admira- 
tion. Her  pale-violet  velvet  dress,  her  white  velvet  bon- 
net, and  abundance  of  white  furs  gave  to  her  aristo- 
cratic beauty  a  queenly  mean  and  semblance. 

It  was  at  first  sight  wonderful  how  any  mere  mortal 
man  could  find  courage  to  offer  escort  to  a  creature  so 
evidently  more  divine  than  himself.  But  Francesca's 
native  gentleness  and  her  cultivated  consideration  were 
like  the  outstretching  of  the  golden  scepter.  All  men 
could  feel  in  her  presence  that  she  sweetly  deprecated 


60  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

her  own  charms  and  exalted  their  masculine  excellen- 
cies. And  as  Almund  was  really  of  less  stature  than 
Francesca,  this  secret,  subtle,  quite  unconscious  flattery 
to  mere  manhood  was  very  reassuring  and  compliment- 
ary. 

On  the  morning  of  the  wedding,  when  the  church  was 
crowded  with  guests,  Lancelot  again  saw  his  love.  She 
was  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  Almund,  and  stepping 
altarward  to  the  sound  of  a  noble  marriage  hymn.  He 
saw  her  before  he  saw  the  bride ;  afterward  he  saw 
nothing  but  her.  A  fresh  adoration  filled  his  soul.  He 
longed  to  kiss  the  chancel  flags  over  which  her  feet  had 
passed.  He  noticed  just  where  she  stood,  and  promised 
himself  to  come  back  and  fill  the  same  space  of  air  and 
light.  Something  of  her  personality  might  remain  there, 
though  but  the  scent  of  her  garments,  the  inaudible  echo 
of  her  voice,  the  invisible  emanations  of  light  from  her 
luminous  countenance. 

As  the  wedding-party  passed  out  of  the  church,  he 
contrived  to  meet  her  in  the  porch.  She  had  been  ex- 
pecting the  meeting,  and  she  gave  him,  in  passing,  the 
glorious  smile  she  had  been  keeping  for  him  alone  and 
the  clasp  of  her  unglovei  hand.  And  then  his  happi- 
ness was  higher  than  the  clouds,  and  his  chagrin  deeper 
than  the  ocean ;  for  she  had  foreseen  their  meeting,  and 
shown  him  such  gracious  and  considered  favor ;  and  he, 
alas !  — he  had  not  been  prepared  for  it. 

He  called  himself  stupid  and  blind  and  unworthy,  in 
a  score  of  different  ways.  He  felt  as  if  nothing  he  could 
do  in  the  future  would  atone  for  that  momentary  want 
of  intuition.  And  at  the  wedding  breakfast  he  was 
placed  far  from  her ;  too  far  to  catch  her  eye  or  hear  her 


MARYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    6 1 

voice,  though  not  too  far  to  see  Almund's  devotion  to 
her  service.  He  was  very  angry  with  Almund  Idle — his 
little  nod  of  recognition  in  Francesca's  presence  seemed 
an  intentional  offense.  It  was  too  patronizing,  and 
Lancelot,  while  drinking  the  bride's  toast,  was  wonder- 
ing what  he  should  do  to  the  man,  what  he  should  do  to 
restore  his  own  self-esteem,  and  what  he  should  do  to 
wound  Almund's  satisfied  complacencies. 

For  lovers  are  either  in  a  heaven  of  confidence  or  in 
a  hell  of  despair.  And  Lancelot,  with  a  mortal's  per- 
versity, thought  little  of  Francesca's  ravishing ^smile  and 
freely  given  hand ;  his  own  dullness — the  mortification 
of  it ;  Almund's  offensive  salutation ;  his  air  of  famil- 
iarity ;  his  attentions  to  Francesca  and  her  apparent 
reception  of  them — all  these  things  made  the  wedding- 
feast  a  miserable  affair  to  him.  And  then  when  the 
breakfast  was  over,  Francesca  left  the  room  with  the 
bride,  and  there  was  no  hope  that  he  would  meet  her 
more  closely  at  that  time.  But  there  was  to  be  a  ball 
in  the  evening,  and  perhaps  he  might  then  be  more  fort- 
unate. Still,  he  must  wait  until  nine  o'clock  at  night, 
and  it  was  only  noon.  How  was  he  to  get  the  nine 
hours  over? 

Now,  the  day  that  begins  badly  often  ends  well,  and 
the  ball  fully  atoned  for  the  breakfast.  And  oh,  how 
lovely,  how  lovesome,  how  loving  she  was!  Such 
happy  dances;  such  happy  confidences  about  nothing 
at  all;  such  eloquent  rests  among  the  palms  in  the 
greenhouse !  And  then,  in  a  kinder  moment,  the  little 
secret  she  had  hitherto  kept : 

"  I  was  caught  in  a  snow-storm,  and  I  sheltered  in 
your  house." 


62  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  Was  it  really  you  ?  " 

"It  was  really  me.  And  I  saw  your  mother.  I  think 
she  liked  me." 

"  I  am  sure  she  did.  She  said  you  were  a  beauty. 
And  mother  does  not  take  to  every  one." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her  again." 

"  Will  you  ride  over  to  Leigh  Farm  with  me  to-mor- 
row? I  will  so  gladly  call  for  you." 

"  It  would  be  delightful  to  do  so.  I  will  ask  Aunt 
Loida." 

And  so  the  conversation  went  on — words  that  meant 
little  in  themselves,  and  that  meant  so  much  as  the 
vehicle  for  a  language  not  otherwise  translatable. 

After  this  every  hour  was  joy-filled.  Aunt  Loida  was 
not  able  to  resist  the  youth's  charm  and  Francesca's 
entreaties,  for  love's  young  dream  had  never  grown  old 
or  cold  in  her  tender  heart.  To  cross  a  true  love 
seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  crime  against  the  soul.  Lance- 
lot and  Francesca  made  her  their  confidante  and  the 
sharer  of  their  happiness.  And  Loida  made  little  mes- 
sages for  them — occasions  for  their  meeting — solitudes 
which  her  presence  did  not  break — secrecies  she  inno- 
cently shared. 

It  was  Aunt  Loida  who  was  to  bring  the  squire  to 
reason,  and  it  was  Aunt  Loida  who  tried  to  inspire  in 
Lancelot's  mother  a  sympathy  equal  to  her  own.  But 
Mrs.  Leigh  was  really  a  stronger  opponent  of  the  lovers 
than  Squire  Atherton  was  ever  likely  to  be.  The  girl 
she  had  liked  at  first  she  soon  began  to  dislike.  She 
perceived  that  Lancelot's  heart  was  set  upon  her,  and 
she  understood  at  once  how  such  a  marriage  would 
affect  interests  dearer  than  life  to  her.  If  Lancelot 


MARRYING  AND  PROMISE  OF  MARRIAGE.    63 

married  Francesca,  he  would,  of  course,  go  to  live  at 
Atherton  Court.  Leigh  Farm  would  be  let  to  strangers. 
She  could  get  no  further  than  this  supposition.  The 
terror  of  such  a  contingency  stopped  thought ;  she  could 
only  feel. 

Still,  for  a  month  Francesca  was  very  happy ;  for  if 
Mrs.  Leigh  withdrew  more  and  more  from  her,  Stephen 
Leigh  was  unusually  proud  and  satisfied  in  his  son's 
success.  And  yet  he  had  a  heart  which  could  fully 
appreciate  the  view  Squire  Atherton  would  take  of 
such  an  alliance. 

"  It  is  varry  like  treason  in  his  only  child,  and  I'd 
call  it  so  if  it  was  against  mysen,"  he  said. 

"  But,  father,"  replied  Lancelot,  "  we  love  each  other 
so  much.  Love  such  as  ours  breaks  all  other  ties." 

"  Then  it  is  a  varry  poor  kind  of  love,  and  I 
wouldn't  hev  anything  to  do  with  it.  If  wife-love  and 
husband-love  doesn't  hallow  and  strengthen  father-love 
and  mother-love,  it  is  a  miserable,  please-mysen,  un- 
blessed bit  of  business.  If  ta  hed  a  daughter  of  thine 
own,  would  ta  think  it  a  fair  thing  for  her  to  forget  all 
thy  love  and  all  thy  care  and  goodness,  as  if  they  hed 
niver  been?  To  set  thee  in  Cold-Shoulder  Lane  for 
some  lad  that  was  a  stranger  a  month  or  two  ago? 
If  Miss  Atherton  is  willing  to  do  that  for  thee,  I  am 
not  willing  to  hev  her  for  a  daughter.  I'd  set  little  by 
her,  and  I'd  tell  her  so  quick  enough." 

"  One  would  think  you  were  Squire  Atherton's 
friend." 

"  I  hope  I'm  not  his  enemy.  I  was  fair  and  square 
with  him  in  business,  and  I'm  none  to  blame  if  he 
cannot  see  his  awn  interest.  Be  thou  as  honest  with 


64  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

him  about  thy  love  as  I  was  about  my  mill.  He  is 
a  varry  good,  gentlemanly  sort  of  man,  and  happen 
God  doesn't  make  ivery  good  man  to  be  a  cotton- 
spinner.  Now  I'll  tell  thee  what:  Go  to  Atherton 
with  thy  Francesca — I  wish  she  hed  a  more  world-like 
name — tell  the  squire  to  his  face  what  thou  hes  said 
tc  his  daughter,  and  what  she  hes  said  to  thee.  That 
is  only  fair.  Hes  ta  asked  her  to  be  thy  wife  ? " 

"  She  says  she  will  marry  no  one  but  me." 

"They  all  say  that,  my  lad,  or  words  varry  like 
them." 

"  Miss  Vyner  has  promised  to  speak  to  the  squire 
•and  try  and  persuade  him  to — " 

"  Nay,  then,  if  ta  isn't  man  enough  to  tell  thy  awn 
tale,  thou  art  right  to  send  a  woman  with  it.  That 
wouldn't  be  my  way,  I  can  tell  thee.  I  would  go 
straight  to  Francesca's  father  and  say  thus  and  so, 
and  '  What  do  you  want  us  to  do  ? '  " 

"  He  may  say  he  wants  us  to  part." 

<(  Then  I'd  say :  '  Varry  well,  squire ;  for  how  long  ? 
Will  a  year  do?'  If  he  makes  it  two  years,  he  will 
do  a  varry  wise  thing.  You  are  both  young  enough  to 
wait  and  grow  wiser.  But  niver  thou  send  a  woman 
on  any  business  thou  should  do  thysen.  I'd  be 
ashamed  if  I  was  thee!  Face  thy  awn  music.  A 
woman  indeed!  A  woman!  They  are  foolish  coun- 
selors and  worse  envoys,  and  in  love  as  unlucky  as 
can  be.  If  ta  can't  speak  for  thysen,  my  lad,  then  hold 
thy  tongue  forever." 


CHAPTER   V. 

A     HAPPY     HOUR. 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea ; 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth 

If  thou  kiss  not  me? — Shelley. 

Oh,  for  the  old  true-love  time, 

When  the  world  was  in  its  prime! — Croly. 

T  ANCELOT  was  not  averse  to  take  his  father's  ad- 
J-/  vice.  It  agreed  with  the  natural  openness  and 
bravery  of  his  spirit ;  indeed,  his  acceptance  of  Miss 
Vyner's  offer  of  mediation  had  sprung  from  the  anxious 
self-depreciation  of  the  lover  and  not  from  the  timidity 
of  the  man. 

Francesca  and  her  aunt  returned  to  Atherton  Court 
toward  the  end  of  January.  The  holiday  feeling  was 
then  over,  and  life  had  settled  into  its  usual  placid 
routine.  The  squire  went  hunting  when  the  weather 
was  favorable ;  when  it  was  not,  he  examined  his  ac- 
counts, wrote  letters,  made  fishing  flies,  read  the  John 
Bull  newspaper  and  the  Gentleman's  Magazine. 

He  was  very  glad  to  have  his  sister  and  his  daughter 
home  again.  Life  had  been  dull  and  lonely  without 
them,  and  the  first  days  of  their  return  were  given  over 


66  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

to  gossiping  with  him  on  all  the  events  which  had  hap- 
pened at  Idleholme.  Very  little  things  had  a  great 
interest  to  the  quiet  gentleman.  He  liked  to  look  at 
Francesca's  new  dresses,  and  to  read  what  had  been 
said  about  her  beauty  in  the  local  papers;  and  he  en- 
joyed her  descriptions  of  the  people  she  had  met  and 
the  lovers  who  had  tried  to  win  her  favor. 

"  But  thou  says  nothing  at  all  of  young  Squire  Idle. 
Did  thou  not  like  him,  Francesca  ? " 

"  Mr.  Almund  Idle  will  not  care  very  much  whether 
I  like  him  or  not,  father.  He  will  go  a-wooing  ac- 
companied by  the  family  lawyer  and  the  settlements." 

"  Oh !    he  is  that  kind,  is  he  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  new  and  nothing  true,  and  it  does 
not  much  signify;  that  is  his  general  attitude,"  con- 
tinued Francesca.  "  He  told  me  that  before  he  was 
twenty-five  years  old  he  had  found  out  that  faith  in 
women  was  beyond  his  power,  and  that  nothing  could 
make  him  love  his  neighbors." 

"  My  word!  Some  good  man  ought  to  give  such  a 
/conceited  jackanapes  a  horse- whipping.  I  hope  thou  let 
him  see  thou  had  no  faith  in  him,  and  that  nothing  could 
make  thee  think  about  loving  him.  How  ever  do  his 
neighbors  bear  with  him  ? " 

"They  admire  him  very  much.  He  is  considered 
exceedingly  clever,  and  I  heard  that  one  of  the  nicest 
girls  in  Yorkshire  was  in  love  with  him." 

"Well,  well!  It  is  a  wonder!  But  women,  God 
bless  them,  do  love  men  that  not  even  God  Almighty 
-can  put  up  with.  Thou  has  spoken  of  riding  a  great 
•deal.  I  wouldn't  think  that  a  man  like  that  would  ever 
care  for  a  horse." 


A   HAPPY  HOUR.  67 

"  He  does  not.  He  says  he  shivers  on  horseback, 
and  that  it  is  folly  exerting  one's  self  to  keep  such  an 
unruly  animal  in  order — doing  the  work  a  coachman  is 
paid  to  do.  He  likes  a  cushioned  carriage  and  plenty 
of  fur  wraps,  and  a  man  to  do  his  driving." 

"Dear  me!  What  a  trial  he  must  be  to  his  father. 
Well,  if  thou  did  not  ride  with  him,  whom  did  thou  ride 
with  ?  " 

"  Very  often  I  went  alone  with  Peel ;  and  very  often 
Mr.  Lancelot  Leigh  rode  with  me.  He  lived  neighbor 
to  Idleholme,  and  the  families  are  quite  friendly." 

The  squire  did  not  answer.  In  a  moment  or  two  he 
rose  from  his  chair,  went  to  the  window,  and  looked 
steadily  out.  Loida  and  Francesca  looked  at  each  other. 
There  was  a  quick  chill  and  silence.  No  one  felt  able 
to  continue  the  conversation,  and  the  tick  of  the  time- 
piece and  the  crackle  of  the  fire  were  the  only  sounds. 

The  garden  into  which  the  squire  looked  was  like  a 
girl  draped  for  her  first  communion,  all  in  white,  and  he 
had  a  sudden  memory  of  the  place  when  it  was  a  glory 
of  perfume  and  color,  and  Francesca  stood  there,  scat- 
tering wheat  to  the  pigeons.  His  heart  was  really 
wounded  by  this  perversity  of  fate.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  been  deceived  by  a  power  which  should  have  re- 
spected his  blindness  and  weakness.  At  the  mention  of 
Lancelot's  name  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes — he  had  gone 
to  the  window  to  hide  them.  Standing  there,  the  forlorn 
feeling  of  a  man  led  astray  by  destiny  assailed  him. 
What  could  his  love  or  prudence  do  against  a  fatality  so 
pitiless  ? 

Moments  are  hours  in  such  mental  conflicts ;  he 
seemed  to  lose  his  foothold,  and  to  go  down  and  down 


68  LOVE  FOR  AN  HO  UK. 

into  an  abyss  of  unexpected  sorrow.  Something  to  lean 
upon  was  a  necessity — the  floor  was  reeling,  the  window 
receding,  everything  becoming  dim  and  blank.  He 
grasped  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  by  a  peremptory  exer- 
cise of  will  compelled  himself  to  meet  this  consciousness 
of  unavoidable  suffering  and  disappointment.  And 
then — so  wonderful  are  the  voices  of  comfort — a  little 
brown  bird  on  a  bare  spray  said  cheerily : 
!  "Chuck,  chuck!  Have  you  anything  for  me  this 
morning?  I  am  so  hungry." 

And  he  whispered : 

"  God  bless  the  bird ! "  and  went  to  the  sideboard 
and  got  some  bread-crumbs  for  it. 

He  was  scattering  them  on  the  window-sill  when  foot- 
steps  on  the  crisp  snow  made  him  turn  his  head.  It  was 
Lancelot  Leigh.  His  youth  and  beauty  were  very  re- 
markable in  the  clear  winter  day  and  against  the  spark- 
ling white  background.  They  would  have  been  offen- 
sively so,  had  they  not  been  made  tolerable  by  the  air 
of  modesty  which  deprecated  such  offense.  He  bowed, 
in  passing,  to  the  squire,  and  stood  upon  his  threshold. 

Now  the  hospitable  instincts  of  Squire  Atherton  were 
in  the  depths  of  his  nature,  and  they  had  the  strength 
which  comes  from  centuries  of  indulgence.  Though  the 
visitor  was  his  enemy,  his  first  thought  was  to  open  his 
door  and  say : 

"  It  is  cold,  come  to  my  hearth  and  warm  yourself! " 

The  words  were  unconsciously  tempered  by  an  air  of 
proud,  courteous  resignation,  as  if  he  had  added :  "  You 
can  take  advantage  of  my  kindness  and  wrong  me,  if 
you  choose,  but  the  shame  will  be  yours,  not  mine." 

Lancelot  entered   the  room  with  an  eager  look  at 


A   HAPPY  HOUR.  69 

Francesca,  but  both  she  and  Miss  Loida  were  unavoid- 
ably cold  and  constrained.  They  felt  as  if  the  visit  was 
inopportune,  and  Loida's  instant  mental  query  had  been : 
"Why  was  he  in  such  a  hurry?"  On  the  contrary, 
Lancelot  thought  he  had  been  uncommonly  patient. 
He  was  anxious  to  explain  himself,  and,  with  the  self- 
confidence  of  youth,  he  went  at  once  to  the  purport  of 
his  visit. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  privately,  squire,"  he  said, 
"  on  a  very  personal  matter." 

"  Sir  ? "  answered  the  squire.  "  You  can  have  nothing 
private  or  personal  with  me.  What  you  have  got  to  say, 
say  now  and  here.  Sit  still,  Francesca !  Sit  still,  Loida ! 
The  gentleman  can  have  nothing  to  say  to  me  you 
may  not  both  listen  to." 

Lancelot  looked  at  Francesca,  and  hesitated.  Her 
face — red  as  a  rose — was  bent  over  her  lace-work,  but 
she  felt  his  glance  and  answered  it  with  one  encourag- 
ing and  affirmative.  Then  he  spoke  out  frankly,  with  a 
kind  of  bold  respect : 

"  Squire  Atherton,  I  have  come  to  ask  your  permis- 
sion to  love  your  daughter." 

"  I  cannot  prevent  your  loving  my  daughter,  sir. 
But  I  will  not  give  a  welcome  to  my  shame  and  sorrow.'* 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  at  least  no  '  shame '  in  my  love. 
I  give  Miss  Atherton  the  honest  affection  of  an  honest 
heart.  My  name  is  unstained.  My  family,  though  not 
noble,  has  its  own  record  of  bravery  and  integrity." 

"  There  has  never  been  a  trader,  sir,  among  the  Ather- 
tons.  We  are  landed  gentlemen,  all  of  us.  Miss  Ather- 
ton will  be  Lady  of  the  Manor  of  Atherton.  I  think  it 
is  an  impertinence  for  a  cotton-spinner  to  lift  his  desire 


70  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

to  her  position.  For  I  hear  you  are  to  have  charge  of 
the  mill  your  father  is  building  near  me — an  offense  in 
itself,  sir ;  a  great  offense." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  the  mill  offends  you,  squire.  I  am 
not  to  blame  in  that  matter." 

"  I  wouldn't  sneak  out  of  a  thing  that  way.  Thou 
art  not  above  taking  the  good  of  it.  Why  cannot  thou 
say,  as  thy  father  says :  '  The  mill  is  all  right,  squire ; 
it  will  be  a  great  blessing,  and  some  day  thou  wilt  say 
so.'  If  thou  talked  in  that  sort,  I  could,  at  least,  believe 
thou  had  the  courage  to  stand  by  thy  opinions,  and  I 
would  like  thee  better  for  it." 

"  Squire,  I  desire  so  much  to  please  you." 

"  Please  thy  own  father,  first  of  all." 

"I  have  been  a  good  son,  sir,  always.  My  father 
would  declare  so,  under  all  circumstances." 

"  Well,  then,  I  heard  him  tell  thee  never  to  marry  a 
proud,  not-to-be-touched  lady  of  the  land.  Obey  him." 

"  He  was  in  a  passion  when  he  said  those  words, 
squire.  He  knows  that  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you 
for  Miss  Atherton's  hand.  He  was  glad  of  it." 

"  Mr.  Leigh,  why  should  we  bandy  words  ?  You 
want  what  I  cannot  find  in  my  heart  to  give  you.  You 
want  what  you  have  no  reason  or  right  to  ask." 

"  Brother,  I  think  Francesca  has  given  Mr.  Leigh 
both  right  and  reason  to  ask  her  hand  of  you ;  "  and 
Miss  Loida  looked  steadily  at  the  angry  squire.  "  We 
are  old,  brother,  and  they  are  young,  and — " 

"  We  are  nothing  of  the  kind,  Loida.  I  am  in  the 
prime  of  life.  Thou  art  far  more  beautiful  than  thou 
was  ten  years  ago.  Dost  thou  mean  to  say  that  because 
Mr.  Leigh  is  twenty-five  and  I  am  near  forty-five,  I 


A   HAPPY  HOUR.  71 

should  ruin  my  hopes  to  gratify  his  ?  That  would  be  a 
queer  thing.  Francesca,  what  has  thou  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  am  your  daughter.  I  would  not  give  you  a  mo- 
ment's disappointment.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  do, 
father?" 

"  I  wish  thee  to  tell  Mr.  Leigh  that  he  must  forget  thy 
existence.  Tell  him  that  thy  father's  wish  is  more  to 
thee  than  his  wish  ;  that  thy  father's  love  is  more  to  thee 
than  his  love.  O  Francesca  !  Francesca  /  " 

The  words  were  the  cry  of  a  wounded  heart,  and  he 
stretched  out  his  arms  as  he  uttered  them.  In  a  mo- 
ment Francesca  was  within  their  embrace.  Her  head 
was  on  his  breast.  She  was  close  to  his  heart.  She- was 
softly  crying : 

"O  father!    father!      My  dear  father!" 

"  Say  thou  loves  me  best,  my  dearie  ?  " 

"  I  love  you !    I  love  you  better  than  my  life,  father! " 

"  Better  than  this  young  man,  who  wants  to  take  thee 
away  from  me  ? " 

Lancelot  looked  at  his  love  with  his  soul  in  his  eyes. 
Her  father  claimed  her  by  a  feeling  far  older  and  far 
stronger.  She  remained  motionless,  suffering  an  agony 
of  indeterminate  emotions. 

Miss  Loida,  trembling  and  weeping,  interfered. 

"  Brother,"  she  cried,  "you  are  too  cruel!  You  have 
no  right  to  put  such  a  question.  Let  Francesca  sit  down. 
My  dear,"  she  said,  as  the  poor  girl  seated  herself  again, 
"my  dear,  weep  ;  it  will  do  you  good."  Then,  turning 
to  the  squire,  she  continued :  "  Brother,  I  must  speak 
for  Francesca's  mother.  She  would  not  like  to  have  her 
little  girl  tortured  between  lover  and  father  in  this  way. 
Look  there,  Rashleigh ! " 


72  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Forgetful  of  every  one,  caring  for  nothing,  Lancelot 
was  kneeling  by  Francesca's  side.  His  arms  were  round 
her,  his  cheek  was  against  her  cheek.  They  were  weep- 
ing together.  She  was  telling  Lancelot  to  "  go  away," 
murmuring  amid  her  sobs : 

"  I  cannot  grieve  him.  I  cannot  grieve  him!  He  is 
my  dear  father.  I  love  him !  I  love  him !  We  must 
wait.  There  is  nothing  else." 

The  squire  stood  irresolute,  silent.  Waves  of  passion 
passed  over  him.  He  was  like  a  great  oak-tree  in  a 
tempest.  Sighs,  ejaculations,  moans  he  was  not  con- 
scious of  escaped  his  lips.  Loida  stood  silently  beside 
him^  The  lovers  believed  they  were  taking  of  each 
other  a  long,  long  farewell. 

This  interlude  of  intense  feeling,  though  lasting  but  a 
few  minutes,  broke  the  strength  and  will  of  every  heart 
present.  The  squire  was  conquered  by  his  own  suffer- 
ing. He  said  feebly : 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?    Tell  me,  Loida." 

"  Give  Love  a  little  favor.  Whatever  comes,  you 
will  be  glad  of  it." 

"Francesca!" 

"  Father  ? " 

She  stood  up  as  he  called  her.  Her  hand  was  clasped 
in  Lancelot's  hand ;  tears  were  on  the  cheeks  of  both ; 
their  eyes  were  shining  through  the  mournful  mist  of 
parting  sorrow.  The  squire  was  struck  by  their  beauty, 
their  youth,  their  sad  air  of  surrender.  His  voice  was 
much  lower.  He  spoke  wearily,  for  he  was  exhausted 
with  feeling : 

"  Francesca.     Come  to  me." 

She  dropped  her  lover's  hand,  she  went  straight  to  his 


A    HAPPY  HOUR,  73 

breast,  she  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  she  burst 
into  passionate  weeping. 

He  held  her  close,  for  he  was  going  to  give  her  up, 
and — as  Englishmen  are  apt  to  do — he  spoke  gruffly, 
because  he  was  going  to  be  kind. 

"  Mr.  Leigh,  I  wish  to  make  my  daughter  happy,  but 
when  one  is  not  sure  about  a  thing,  it  is  a  right  way  to 
take  time  to  make  sure.  Take  two  years.  Come  and 
go  as  you  desire — only,  have  a  bit  of  discretion,  and  do 
not  wear  welcome  and  father-love  threadbare.  When 
two  years  are  past,  speak  to  me  again.  It  may  be, 
when  we  know  more  of  each  other,  we  may  think  better 
of  each  other.  Now  Loida,  I'll  go  to  my  own  -room 
an  hour.  Send  me  a  slice  of  cold  roast  beef  and  a 
glass  of  wine.  I  feel  a  bit  faint.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Leigh." 

The  favor  gained  so  hardly  was  not  one  that  could 
be  used  without  great  care  and  self-restraint.  Lance 
found  it  difficult  to  do  right.  If  he  kept  entirely  out  of 
the  squire's  way,  the  unhappy  father  made  a  scornful 
wonder  of  it ;  if  he  visited  Atherton  Court  in  the  squire's 
presence,  he  could  not  avoid  giving  offense.  It  was  a 
position  that  would  have  killed  love  in  any  nature  less 
sweet  and  tolerant  and  self-forgetting  than  Lancelot's. 

Neither  had  Lancelot  in  his  own  home  much  real 
sympathy.  His  mother  only  tolerated  "  Lady  Fran- 
cesca  "  because  her  son  had  not  only  positively  refused 
to  marry  Maria  Crossley,  he  had  shown  also  some  ad- 
miration for  pretty  Sanna  Newby,  who  just  at  this  time 
finished  her  education  and  returned  home.  And  if  there 
were  any  human  beings  altogether  hateful  to  Mrs. 
Leigh,  it  was  her  nearest  neighbors,  the  Newbys.  The 


74  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

land  of  Newby  Farm  joined  the  land  of  Leigh  Farm, 
and  portions  of  the  two  estates  had  frequently  changed 
hands.  In  the  bad  times  of  Leigh,  the  Newbys  had 
bought  some  of  the  Leighs'  land ;  in  the  bad  times  of 
the  Newbys,  then  the  Leighs  had  gradually  redeemed 
their  meadows. 

The  haunting  terror  of  Martha  Leigh's  life  was  the 
fear  that  her  husband  would  mortgage  Leigh  to  Newby ; 
for  the  Newbys  were  at  this  time  very  prosperous,  and 
just  as  greedy  as  they  had  ever  been  of  their  neighbor's 
acres.  And  Sanna  Newby  was  undoubtedly  pretty.  So 
that  between  her  desire  that  Lance  should  marry  Maria 
Crossley  and  her  fear  that  he  might  fancy  Sanna  Newby, 
Mrs.  Leigh  was  kept  in  a  perpetual  worry.  Stephen 
thought  she  ought  to  be  happy  enough  to  compromise 
on  Miss  Atherton. 

"  It  is  few  people,"  he  said,  one  day,  in  reply  to  a 
long  complaint  on  this  subject — "it  is  few  people, 
Martha,  who  get  what  they  want,  and  so  they  ought  to 
be  well  suited  if  they  miss  what  they  do  not  want.  Miss 
Atherton  is  not  as  welcome  as  Maria,  but  she  is  better 
than  Sanna.  I'd  be  content  if  I  was  thee." 

But  Miss  Atherton  might  be  Lance's  wife  and  yet  not 
mistress  of  Leigh  House,  and  this  likelihood  was  Martha 
Leigh's  terror.  She  was  of  that  order  of  women  who  love 
their  children  passionately  while  infirmity  or  weakness 
asks  for  their  protecting  care.  Lance,  however,  no  longer 
came  to  her  for  consolation  or  advice.  He  bore  his 
own  trials  and  ordered  his  own  affairs.  But  her  home! 
It  could  not  save  itself  from  the  Newbys.  There  was 
no  voice  in  its  gray  stones  that  asked  Stephen  Leigh  to 
spare  it  from  usurers  and  loan-men.  There  was  no  one 


A   HAPPY  HOUR.  75 

but  her  to  plan  for  its  salvation  or  defend  its  rights,  and 
in  so  doing  preserve  the  place  of  her  ancestors  in  the 
atmosphere  of  their  influences. 

For  she  fervently  believed  that  strangers  in  Leigh 
House  would  shut  its  doors  against  the  wraiths  of  those 
who  had  built  its  rooms  and  who  still  visited  them. 
She  was  planning  and  fighting,  then,  not  only  for  the 
living,  but  the  dead.  There  was  a  cloud  of  witnesses 
behind  urging  her  to  maintain  their  rights,  and  Lance's 
marriage  affected  her  mainly  in  this  direction.  Maria 
would  insure  Leigh  in  the  Leigh  line,  for  she  was  one 
of  those  earthly,  selfish  women  who  find  connubial  love 
all  the  love  they  desire.  She  would  marry  Lance  and 
forget  her  own  father  and  mother  and  kindred;  she 
would  merge  her  own  house,  if  need  was,  into  the  wel- 
fare of  his  house.  She  would  obey  Lance  like  an  In- 
dian squaw,  and  for  the  bones  of  love  he  threw  her 
serve  the  house  of  Leigh  with  all  her  body  and  all  her 
soul. 

The  difference  between  such  an  animal  woman  and 
the  spiritual  Francesca  was  very  great,  and  the  shrewd 
Yorkshire  woman  understood  at  once  which  would  aid 
her  purpose  best.  Therefore  she  received  the  news  of 
Lance's  engagement  to  Miss  Atherton  with  unreason- 
able anger  and  disappointment,  and  Lance  was  kept 
in  constant  irritation  by  the  fears  and  predictions  of 
disaster  that  was  to  come  through  his  unwise  choice  of 
a  wife. 

It  was  some  consolation  that  he  had  his  father's  hearty 
sympathy. 

"  Marry  the-  girl  thou  loves,  whoever  she  is.  At  the 
end  she  is  the  best  wife,"  he  said.  "  If  I  hedn't  loved 


76  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

thy  mother  with  all  my  heart,  what  a  trial  she  would 
hev  turned  out  to  be !  But  I  always  manage  to  excuse 
her  tempers,  and  bide  her  ways.  Why?  Because, 
Lance,  I  love  her.  I  love  her  so,  even  yet,  that  it  is 
easy  to  forgive  and  forget.  But  it  takes  a  deal  of  love 
at  the  outset  to  bank  enough  for  such  ill  days  as  hev 
come  to  me,  my  lad ! " 

So,  many  restless,  unhappy  weeks  passed.  Lance, 
however,  had  consolations  that  were  sufficient.  There 
were  certain  days  when  the  squire  was  sure  to  be  on 
the  magistrate's  bench,  and  others  when  he  was  at  the 
hunt — and  at  such  times  it  was  love  that  made  the  little 
world  at  Atherton  Court  go  round.  Miss  Loida  was 
then  charmingly  neglectful.  She  knew  that  love  was  a 
poem  for  two  only,  and  that  a  third,  however  sympa- 
thetic, could  not  even  be  chorus  to  it.  On  wet  days 
she  let  them  wander  about  the  old  rooms  and  corridors, 
where  every  picture  kept  a  story  and  every  chair  held  a 
dream.  And  as  the  spring  came  on,  there  was  the 
clematis  arbor  and  the  terrace  walks. 

Together  the  lovers  watched  the  budding  of  the  trees 
and  building  of  the  nests.  Together  they  saw  the  open- 
ing of  the  lilies  and  the  tulips,  and  the  bluebells'  little 
censer  swinging.  Together  they  listened  to  the  throstles' 
sweet  vesper,  and  to  the  delicious  dissyllable  of  the 
cuckoo-bird.  And  as  the  garden  filled  with  roses  and 
with  all  the  glory  and  odor  of  the  warm  summer,  they 
went  so  joyfully  through  it  that  Lancelot  could  not  keep 
Sappho's  glorious  wedding-song  out  of  his  mind. 
Twenty  times  a  day  he  found  himself  stepping  to  its 
glad  march,  and  then  blushing  at  his  own  happy  imag- 


A   HAPPY  HOUR.  77 

"  High  lift  the  beams  of  the  chamber, 

Workmen  on  high ; 

Like  Ares  in  step  comes  the  bridegroom, 
Like  him  of  the  song  of  Terpander, 
Like  him  in  majesty!" 

And  oh !  the  sweet,  long  evenings,  when  the  cool  air 
thrilled  through  the  apple-branches,  and  joy  and  peace 
flowed  down  upon  them  through  the  rustling  leaves! 
When  they  sat  silent  together,  and  listened  to  the  night- 
ingale, in  the  deep  woods,  singing  to  his  mate! 

They  were  both  so  young,  both  so  fair,  both  so  much 
in  love,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  a  certain  joy  in  joy 
so  innocent  and  so  natural.  Miss  Loida  made  little 
plans  for  their  indulgence ;  there  was  not  a  servant  in 
the  house  but  what  gave  them  a  smile ;  the  gardener 
saw  them  coming  and  slipped  out  of  sight.  Something 
sacred  invested  a  love  so  pure ;  every  one  shrank  from 
intruding  on  its  privileges ;  it  was  not  made  a  joke  of 
by  the  stable  boys.  Perhaps,  even  then,  it  had  an  aura 
of  sorrow,  which  those  outside  felt  and  unconsciously 
respected. 

Toward  September  the  squire  perceptibly  softened 
toward  Lancelot.  For  without  any  intent  the  young 
man  did  a  thing  that  pleased  him  very  much.  There 
was  a  large  tract  of  waste  land  on  the  boundaries  of  the 
Atherton  estate,  and  Lancelot  began  to  buy  it.  That 
was  an  investment  Squire  Atherton  could  understand. 
If  that  ugly  mill  toiled,  not  to  make  calicoes  only,  but 
that  cloth  might  become  land,  he  could  better  bear  the 
sight  of  it.  For  three  great  principles  moved  his  life  to 
their  dictates — to  love  God  and  the  church  of  England, 
•to  fulfill  all  that  pertained  to  his  social  position  with 


78  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

honor  and  integrity,  and  to  do  his  duty  by  the  land — • 
his  own  land  first  and  his  whole  native  land  after  it. 

He  began  to  talk  to  Lancelot  about  the  draining  and 
improving  of  these  waste  acres,  and  Lancelot  perceived 
the  advantage  he  had  gained.  He  left  them  to  the 
direction  of  the  squire,  and  the  squire  felt  them  upon 
his  honor,  and  saw  that  they  had  justice.  And  from 
land  to  politics  was  an  easy  transition.  The  squire  was 
pleased  to  find  a  man  likely  to  be  so  near  to  him  a  stiff 
Conservative  in  principle.  Then  he  began  to  see  how 
he  might  use  his  influence  in  sending  Lancelot  to  Parlia- 
ment. The  idea  took  permanence  in  his  mind.  He 
felt  already  a  partisan's  interest  in  his  success.  And 
Lancelot  was  pleased  with  the  proposition  ;  he  was  in- 
deed anxious  to  do  anything  which  would  make  him 
more  worthy  of  the  girl  he  so  entirely  loved. 

The  improvement  of  land  and  its  representation  was 
the  squire's  hobby;  he  liked  to  talk  about  it,  for  he 
talked  well  on  his  own  side  of  the  subject ;  and  Lance- 
lot differed  just  sufficiently  to  give  him  the  pleasure  of 
convincing  his  opponent.  This  was  another  favorable 
point ;  it  is  not  hard  to  learn  to  love  those  whom  we 
conceive  ourselves  to  have  corrected,  especially  when 
they  are  teachable  and  obedient.  It  may  be  suspected 
that  love,  and  not  the  land-owner,  made  Lancelot  easy 
of  conviction ;  but  if  so,  was  not  that  state  rather  en- 
viable than  otherwise  ? 

So  day  by  day  the  atmosphere  of  Atherton  lightened 
and  brightened  and  grew  pleasanter.  For  the  words 
of  love  and  of  loving-kindness,  the  smiles  and  good 
wishes  and  snatches  of  old-world  songs  breathed  into  it, 
made  it  sweet  and  calm  and  full  of  happy  influences, 


A    HAPPY  HOUR.  79 

just  as  words  of  anger  and  hate  and  sinful  mirth  trouble 
and  darken  and  make  its  waves  too  turbulent  for  peace 
or  restful  life. 

But  there  is  a  tide  in  love  as  in  all  other  things; 
some  happy  hour,  when  loving  hearts  touch  the  rapture 
of  perfect  unison  in  elements  that  are  wholly  responsive 
and  propitious.  One  evening  in  September  this  full 
tide  of  joy  came  to  Lancelot  and  Francesca.  The  har- 
vest moon  filled  heaven  and  earth  with  its  mellow  radi- 
ance. The  reapers  were  among  the  wheat  binding  it 
into  sheaves.  They  were  singing,  as  they  worked,  some 
old  sickle  song.  Soft  and  loud,  stopping  and  beginning 
again,  its  burden  came  over  the  fields  and  through  the 
garden  and  touched  everything  with  a  sweet  melan- 
choly : 

"  We  have  reaped,  and  we  have  bound, 
Let  the  year  go  round ; 

Let the year go round. " 

The  squire  had  been  in  the  fields  all  day  and  had 
come  home  at  evening  weary  but  happy.  There  was  a 
noble  harvest,  his  barns  would  all  be  full.  Loida  met 
him  with  smiles,  and  the  meal  he  liked  best  was  waiting 
for  him.  Francesca  came  in  to  give  him  a  kiss  and 
put  the  sugar  in  his  tea.  He  felt  really  as  if  his  lot  had 
fallen  to  him  in  pleasant  places. 

When  he  had  eaten,  he  said : 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  garden,  Loida.  I'll  be  bound 
Francesca  and  Lancelot  are  there." 

He  still  hesitated  to  say  "  Lancelot,"  but  at  that  mo- 
ment he  felt  sorry  for  his  hesitation,  and  added,  with 
the  intention  of  atoning  for  it : 


80  LOVE   FOR  AX  HOUR. 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow ;  eh,  Loida  ?  " 

"  He  is  as  good  as  good  can  be." 

"  To  be  sure  he  is." 

Then  he  went  slowly  out,  his  pipe  in  his  hand,  and 
Miss  Loida  walked  at  his  side.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
light  muslin  gown,  mostly  white,  but  having  wavering 
points  of  light  green  in  it.  A  black  ribbon  belt  was 
round  her  slim  waist,  and  black  lace  mitts  on  her  hands 
— a  stately,  lovely  lady,  whom  it  was  good  to  see  and 
good  to  talk  to. 

The  clematis  arbor  was  empty,  and  they  sat  down 
in  it.  A  nightingale  was  singing  far  off  in  the  woods, 
and  the  reapers'  voices  came  softly  from  the  meadows. 
The  air  was  still,  warm,  and  radiant.  It  tasted  of  the 
ripe  peaches  and  apricots,  of  the  bergamot  flowers  and 
the  hot,  sweet  lavender.  There  was  a  bed  of  white  lilies 
not  far  away,  and  the  star  Venus  hung  like  a  great  white 
lamp  near  the  horizon. 

Loida  dropped  her  hands,  and  sat  thinking.  The 
squire  lit  his  pipe,  and  sat  thinking.  They  did  not  need 
to  tell  each  other  what  they  thought  about.  They  un- 
derstood and  respected  that  confidential  silence  which 
is  often  the  surest  sign  of  trustful  friendship.  Suddenly 
the  delicious  air  was  thrilled  with  that  melody  which  is 
beyond  all  other  melodies — a  charming  human  voice — 
a  voice  whose  living  notes,  joyous  and  entrancing,  com- 
pelled all  influences  to  become  a  part  of  its  witchery. 

The  squire  was  delighted.  He  put  down  his  pipe  and 
stood  up  to  listen. 

"  That  is  Lance,"  he  said  softly ;  "  but  whatever  is 
he  singing  ?  Wilt  thou  come  here,  Loida  ? " 

She  rose  and  stood  beside  him.     She  saw  what  he 


A    HAPPY  HOUR.  8 1 

had  called  her  to  see — Lancelot  and  Francesca  walk- 
ing slowly  up  the  terrace  steps.  They  were  both  bare- 
headed ;  they  were  both  dressed  in  white,  and  the  moon- 
shine made  a  wondrous  glory  all  over  and  around  them. 
Lancelot's  face  was  bent  to  Francesca's.  He  was  tell- 
ing his  love  in  such  words  and  tones  as  are  only  learned 
in  moments  of  inspiration,  and  only  repeated  when  men 
forget  that  they  are  mortal. 

They  came  to  the  lily-bed,  and  they  stood  there.  It 
was  no  wonder.  The  great  white  flowers  in  the 
heavenly  light  looked  like  the  flowers  of  heaven.  Their 
perfume  made  the  heart  faint  with  joy.  Lancelot  gath- 
ered one.  For  a  momnet  he  held  it  to  his  lips  as  if  he 
would  catch  its  perfume  to  make  more  sweet  his  song. 
Then  he  gave  it  to  Francesca,  and  she  would  have 
kissed  it,  but  Lancelot  caught  the  kiss  between  her  lips 
and  the  flower ;  and  so  began  to  sing  again.  His  bright 
face  was  lifted,  and  it  mirrored  the  full  glory  of  the 
moon.  Francesca  leaned  toward  him  as  a  flower  leans 
to  the  sun. 

"  Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver? 

Or  swan's-down  ever? 
Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier? 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
Oh,  so  white!     Oh,  so  soft!     Oh,  so  sweet  is  she!  " 

The  exquisite  words  were  breathed  in  exquisite  music, 
in  notes  full  of  passion,  sweet,  ringing,  and  delicate.  It 


82  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

was  like  a  "Gloria  in  Excelsis"  of  Palestrina's.  The 
squire  stood  breathless,  listening,  tears  were  in  Loida's 
eyes ;  without  analyzing  their  emotions,  they  felt  how 
truly  a  noble  singer  is  a  reed  breathed  through  by  the 
Spirit  of  God. 

They  went  very  quietly  back  to  the  house.  In  each 
heart  there  was  the  same  thought — that  it  would  be  a 
kind  of  sacrilege  to  disturb  such  a  service  of  love.  Only 
the  squire  said,  with  a  tender,  melancholy  sigh :  "  I  wish 
I  was  a  young  man  again,  Loida."  When  they  reached 
the  house  he  sat  down  by  the  open  window.  But  the 
song  was  finished,  and  the  garden  was  as  quiet  as  a 
garden  in  a  dream.  In  an  hour  the  lovers  followed. 
They  were  silent,  they  were  almost  melancholy  with  the 
sweet  sadness  of  earthly  love.  They  had  been  on  En- 
chanted Ground  in  the  Land  of  Blissful  Silence.  They 
knew  that  when  they  uttered  a  word  the  spell  would  be 
broken. 

Loida  met  them  with  a  little  effusion  of  solicitude. 
She  divined  and  wished  to  cover  their  self-conscious- 
ness. 

Was  the  dew  falling  ?  Was  Francesca  sure  she  had 
not  taken  cold  ?  Were  they  not  hungry  ?  Francesca 
had  so  little  tea. 

The  squire  asked  if  the  reapers  were  still  at  work. 
Did  they  hear  their  voices  when  they  left  the  garden  ? 
And  then,  suddenly :  "  What  wert  thou  singing  to- 
night, Lance  ?  I  never  heard  that  song  before ;  no, 
nor  anything  like  it." 

"I  was  singing  a  love-song  by  'rare  Ben  Jonson.'  I 
set  the  words  to  music.  Francesca  inspired  it." 

"  Sing  it  once  more,  Lance." 


A   HAPPY  HOUR.  83 

"  I  would  rather  not,  sir.  I  made  the  song  for  Fran- 
cesca  only.  I  will  sing  anything  else  you  desire." 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  have  some  sea  songs.  There  is 
nothing  like  them."  And  he  rose  and  went  toward  the 
piano. 

Lance  was  already  striking  some  introductory  chords, 
and  the  squire,  who  had  the  strange  love  which  agricult- 
uralists have  for  hearing  of  and  singing  of  "  the  sea," 
was  soon  joining  his  fine  baritone  to  Lancelot's  tenor 
in  "  Hearts  of  Oak  "  and  "  Britannia  Rules  the  Waves," 
"  The  Heaving  of  the  Lead,"  and  a  dozen  other  nautical 
favorites,  until  they  sailed  with  the  gale  "  On  the  Bay 
of  Biscay,  O ! " 

This  was  always  the  squire's  last  song.  He  felt  that 
nothing  could  come  after  its  magnificent  roll  and  its  air 
of  stormy  salt  water.  When  it  was  finished  he  sat  down, 
as  he  always  did.  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  and  an  in- 
tense admiration  for  the  British  navy  and  all  the  jolly 
tars  that  made  it.  Music  is  a  noble  interpreter;  the 
squire  and  Lance  found  each  other's  hearts  among  the 
sympathetic  chords.  They  shook  hands  at  parting  as 
they  had  never  done  before.  Francesca  stood  by  her 
father's  side,  and  they  both  kissed  her. 

"  It  has  been  a  happy  hour,"  said  the  squire,  and 
Loida  smiled  her  sweet  assent,  and  Lancelot  once  more 
kissed  his  love  "  Good-night " ;  and  none  of  them  saw, 
in  the  blue  heaven  of  their  hopes,  the  little  cloud  above 
them — the  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"IT    HAS    TO    BE    BORNE." 

As  if  a  door  in  heaven  should  be 
Opened  and  then  closed  suddenly ; 

The  vision  came  and  went, 

The  light  shone  and  was  spent. — Longfellow. 

THE  cloud  came  from  the  west — from  the  far  south- 
west. It  was  the  shadow  of  war;  and  what  had 
war  to  do  with  the  love  of  Lancelot  and  Francesca? 
Though  the  rumor  and  the  fear  of  it  had  been  in  the 
hearts  of  thoughtful  men  for  months,  hitherto  Lancelot 
had  not  been  much  troubled.  His  father  had  borne 
the  burden  of  anxiety  for  both  mills.  Cotton  had 
always  been  forthcoming  for  the  looms  at  Atherton ; 
Lancelot  had  not  imagined  a  time  when  he  would  want 
"  material "  and  not  receive  it. 

But  the  time  was  near  at  hand,  for  the  cotton  land 
was  in  rebellion  and  its  ports  blockaded.  There  had 
been  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  such  a  terrible  calamity, 
but  Lance  had  never  believed  it  possible.  The  want 
of  cotton,  the  consequent  want  of  work,  the  certain 
famine  and  distress,  had  seemed  to  him  like  the  light- 
ning in  heaven,  far  off. 

He  went  to  consult  with  his  father.  He  found  him 
in  great  anxiety  and  distress,  but  he  also  found  that  he 
had  risen  to  the  noblest  point  of  the  situation. 


"IT  HAS    TO  BE  BORNE."  85 

"Are  you  going  to  close  your  mill,  father?"  Lance- 
lot asked,  even  as  the  two  men  met  and  shook  hands. 

"  Not  I.  I  shall  keep  it  running  as  long  as  I  hev 
a  shilling  to  buy  cotton  with." 

"  Margraves  has  shut  his  mill." 

"  Hargraves  is  a  big  fat  bear.  He  can  live  on  him- 
self rarely,  and  niver  feel  that  he  is  a  selfish  brute  for 
doing  so.  I  am  none  of  his  kind." 

"  But  your  cotton  will  not  last  long,  and  then  you 
will  have  to  shut  your  gates." 

"  I  won't  shut  them  as  long  as  I  can  buy  cotton 
at  any  figure.  I  have  begun  to  run  half  time — for  a 
half -loaf  is  better  than  no  loaf  at  all — and  I  shall  try 
to  keep  up  to  that  mark  till  peace  comes,  or  till  we 
get  Indian  staple  in  sufficient  quantities  to  bring  down 
prices." 

"  What  shall  I  do  at  Atherton  ?  " 

"  What  does  ta  think  thou  ought  to  do  ?  I  gave  thee 
Atherton  Mill  when  ta  won  Squire  Atherton's  daughter ; 
now,  then,  do  whativer  thou  thinks  is  right.  I  don't 
keep  thy  conscience,  my  lad!  My  awn  is  about  all  I 
can  manage." 

"  It  is  none  of  our  quarrel,  father." 

"Ay,  but  it  is  our  quarrel,  Lance.  It  is  ivery  good 
man's  and  ivery  good  woman's  quarrel.  I  hevn't  heard 
a  word  contrary  from  any  of  the  poor  souls  that  will 
have  to  go  hungry  for  it.  I  am  going  to  sell  my 
horses  and  stop  wastry  of  whativer  kind ;  and  thou  had 
better  do  the  same.  Thy  mother  sent  off  all  the  house 
servants  but  one." 

"  Is  that  fair?     Servants  must  live  also." 

"  A  servant  can  be  a  servant  anywhere ;  they  cau  g< 


86  LOVE   FOR  A\'  HOI'R. 

to  Bradford  and  get  work.  A  cotton-spinner  is  fit  for 
nothing  else." 

"  Do  you  think  the  war  will  continue  for  any  length 
of  time  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  say  it  would.  The  North  has  been 
preaching  to  the  South  a  long  while,  and  the  South  has 
been  calling  the  North  ivery  ill  name  it  can  think  of — 
and  from  what  I  can  understand  they  can  think  of  a 
good  many  aggravating  ones — and  words  hev  come  to 
blows  at  last ;  and  I'm  afraid  they  won't  find  out  in  a 
hurry  which  of  them  can  hit  the  hardest." 

"  Well,  then  ?  " 

"  '  Well,  then  ? '  What  does  ta  ask  me  questions  for  ? 
Thou  knows  thy  duty.  Thou  knows  Yorkshire  men 
and  women  won't  beg  under  any  circumstances.  If 
thou  art  wicked  enough  to  let  them  starve,  they  will 
starve  without  a  word.  Thou  hes  made  a  bit  of 
money,  and  thou  hes  a  good  bit  more  thy  grand- 
father left  thee.  I  don't  think  at  this  time  thou  can 
save  thy  money  and  save  thy  honor  and  thy  manhood 
also.  Thou  ought  to  know  which  thou  values  at  the 
highest  figure.  I  cannot  help  thee,  my  lad.  When 
thou  took  the  mill  as  a  gift  from  me,  thou  took  it  with 
all  it  might  bring  thee — loss  or  gain.  No  man  could 
then  foresee  what  has  come  to  pass." 

"  And  you  cannot  help  me  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  help  mysen.  I'll  hev  more  to  do  with  my 
awn  mill  than  I  can  manage,  for  I  shall  keep  it  going 
half  time  if  I  sell  the  watch  out  of  my  pocket  to  do  so. 
I'll  not  shut  the  hands  out  to  starve  till  I  cannot  raise 
another  shilling.  Thou  can  do  as  seems  right  to  thee." 

"  I  was  making  money  fast,  father." 


"77-  HAS    TO  BE  BORNE."  87 

"  To  be  sure.  And  them  can  save  all  thou  hes  made 
if  thou  chooses  to  shut  thy  mill  till  the  war  is  over.  I 
hev  no  doubt  when  that  takes  place  two  million  bales 
of  cotton — mebbe  more — will  be  poured  into  Man- 
chester market.  Then  them  as  hev  saved  their  money 
can  buy,  and  can  run  things  about  as  they  fancy  to  run 
them.  I  shall  not  be  among  that  crowd,  I  can  tell 
thee.  And  if  thou  art  my  son,  I  shall  not  find  thee 
among  them." 

Lancelot  smiled  pleasantly. 

"  You  will  find  me  wherever  you  are,  father.  I  may 
perhaps  run  the  Atherton  Mill  a  year  on  half  time  if  I 
use  all  the  money  I  have.  Will  the  war  be  over  in  a 
year  ? " 

"  Nobody  knows  that,  Lance.  We  can  but  do  ivery 
day's  duty  as  it  comes,  and  hope  for  the  best.  I  hev 
twice  as  many  hands  as  thou  hes,  and  my  money  is 
badly  tied  up,  but  a  lot  will  hev  to  happen  before  I 
shut  my  mill-gates." 

It  was  a  pathetic  country  through  which  Lancelot 
rode  back  to  Atherton.  Many  of  the  great  mills  he 
passed  had  been  closed  that  Saturday  night,  and  the 
silent,  empty  places,  the  smokeless  chimneys,  and  the 
idle  inhabitants  standing  in  groups  talking  of  their 
calamity,  filled  him  with  sorrowful  apprehensions.  He 
had  begun  to  take  great  pride  in  his  mill — begun  to 
look  upon  it  as  a  friend.  He  had  also  felt  much  in- 
terest in  his  hands;  he  had  considered  their  comfort 
and  pleasure,  and  Atherton  was  almost  a  model  mill 
village. 

But  to  have  people  on  half  time,  half  fed,  perhaps 
sick,  was  not  a  comfortable  outlook.  And  it  did  cost 


88  LOTE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

him  a  pang  to  pay  out  pound  after  pound  of  the  money 
left  him  by  his  grandfather — to  pay  it  out  on  a  "  per- 
adventure,"  not  even  to  feel  sure  that  his  generosity 
would  at  last  avail.  The  squire  gave  him  but  a  cold 
approval.  Between  a  man  saving  money  and  buying 
land  and  a  man  spending  his  capital  there  is  a  funda- 
mental difference. .  The  man  himself  is  different ;  and 
the  act,  though  really  a  far  grander  one  than  those  the 
trumpet  was  blowing  from  west  to  east,  was  done  with- 
out even  a  decided  self-approval.  Virtue  may  be  her 
own  reward,  but  Lancelot  desired  not  only  the  ap- 
proval of  his  own  conscience — he  wished  this  self-satis- 
faction indorsed  by  the  good  opinion  of  the  man  whose 
respect  he  greatly  valued. 

But  Squire  Atherton  was  in  the  position  of  one  who 
sees  the  evil  thing  prophesied  come  to  pass.  Never 
before  in  his  village  had  there  been  suffering  beyond 
his  power  to  alleviate.  In  times  of  agricultural  distress 
he  and  his  tenants  and  laborers  bore  the  curtailment 
together,  and  were  drawn  closer  by  their  mutual  mis- 
fortune. They  were,  too,  his  own  people — sons  of  the 
soil — who  had  lived  from  it  and  on  it,  in  their  genera- 
tions, as  long  as  the  Athertons  had  lived  at  Atherton 
Court.  But  these  white-faced,  half-famished  "hands," 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  their  emptied  houses  or  standing 
in  mournful,  hopeless  groups  at  the  street-corners,  were 
strangers  from  Manchester,  Salford,  Oldham,  etc. 
They  looked  at  him,  he  fancied,  with  sullen  ill-will,  and 
he  resented  this  intrusion  of  commercial  poverty  and 
discontent  into  his  hitherto  satisfied  community. 

He  declined  to  talk  about  affairs  with  Lancelot.  He 
let  him  see  that  he  felt  injured  and  offended;  that  he 


"IT  HAS    TO  BE  BORNE."  8$ 

regretted  his  late  toleration  of  the  mill,  and  withdrew 
any  approval  he  had  given.  And  his  sympathies — it 
he  expressed  any — were  on  the  side  of  the  Southern 
land-owners.  He  put  slavery,  as  an  idea,  out  of  the 
question.  He  thought  only  of  the  proprietors  of  the 
land  having  it  invaded,  and  their  homes  wasted  that 
their  laborers  might  be  benefited.  Perhaps  he  took 
this  view  because  it  negatived  any  special  virtue  in 
Lancelot  spending  his  substance  for  this  idea.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  give  it  any  encouragement 
or  enthusiasm. 

On  the  contrary,  Francesca  and  Miss  Loida  were  on 
the  side  of  the  weak  and  suffering,  and  the  squire  did 
not  prevent  them  showing  it.  He  privately  thought  his 
barns  and  hay-ricks  might  be  safer  if  he  let  the  ladies  of 
his  house  go  with  the  popular  current.  And  in  his 
really  kind  heart  he  was  glad  to  see  Miss  Loida  giving 
out  soup,  and  sparing  the  whole  household  of  milk  and 
watching  every  slice  of  bread,  that  as  much  as  possible 
might  go  to  the  hungry  little  children.  He  was  glad  to 
see  Loida  and  Francesca  busy  all  day  making  garments 
for  them ;  glad  to  know  they  were  going  from  house  to 
house,  helping  the  weak  and  the  suffering.  Quietly  he 
gave  a  great  deal  himself ;  for  if  sickness  and  hunger 
were  visible  things,  he  could  not  bear  to  pass  them  with- 
out imparting  succor.  But  yet  there  was  a  deep  resent- 
ment in  his  heart  at  the  introduction  of  such  contingen- 
cies into  his  special  neighborhood. 

Lancelot  felt  this  want  of  sympathy  very  keenly.  He 
knew  that  the  squire's  regulated  and  acknowledged 
charity  might  have  been  a  great  help  in  his  hopeless 
struggle  with  war  and  famine.  And  he  did  suffer,  also, 


90  LOVE  FOR  A.V  HOUR. 

in  the  gradual  wasting  away  of  his  own  substance. 
Every  pound  spent  put  his  marriage  with  Francesca 
further  off ;  and  he  was  quite  sure  the  squire  would  tell 
him  that  if  he  preferred  to  give  his  all  for  an  idea,  he 
must  be  content  with  the  satisfaction  the  gratified  idea 
gave  him.  Francesca  could  not  marry  a  poor  man ; 
and  Lancelot  could  not  expect — could  not,  indeed, 
wish — the  squire  to  make  him  a  rich  man  by  his  gift 
or  favor. 

So  the  months  passed  drearily  enough  away.  He 
knew  from  his  mother's  letters  that  his  father  was  fight- 
ing an  equally  hopeless  battle : 

"  He  is  simply  selling  all  he  has  to  keep  the  mill  going." 
"  Cotton  is  rising,  and  father  is  desperate,  but  not  to  be  moved." 
"  I  am  terrified  your  father  will  mortgage — perhaps  sell — LeigTi 
Farm.     I  am  only  able  to  think  of  this  one  thing." 

Such  like  sentences  in  her  letters  indicated  the  con- 
dition of  things  at  Garsby,  and  they  only  varied  as  the 
hopes  of  a  speedy  peace  rose  or  fell  again. 

At  the  close  of  the  second  year  all  the  manufacturing 
portions  of  England  dependent  upon  cotton  were  in  a 
desperate  and  deplorable  condition ;  hunger,  naked- 
ness, and  pestilence  had  taken  possession  of  them.  By 
this  time,  also,  Lancelot  had  spent  all  he  had ;  yet  the 
peace  so  ardently  hoped  and  prayed  for  seemed  as  far 
off  as  ever.  Then  the  day  came  he  had  feared — the 
day  when  he  would  be  compelled  to  close  his  mill.  It 
was  a  dull,  wet  morning  in  the  middle  of  summer;  a 
time  when  rain  and  clouds  seem  most  of  all  mournful 
and  unnatural. 

His  last  pound  was  gone,  and  he  knew  that  a  few 


"IT  HAS   TO  BE  BORNE."  91 

hours'  work  would  clear  out  the  last  tuft  of  cotton.  He 
walked  through  the  mill  with  an  aching  heart.  Some 
of  the  looms  had  already  stopped.  There  was  no  more 
cotton  to  feed  them.  At  others  the  "  hands "  were 
watching  the  loads  upon  the  looms,  minute  by  minute 
getting  smaller  and  smaller.  In  a  short  time  there  was 
not  a  shred  left.  Then  men  and  women  stood  looking 
at  Lancelot.  There  was  something  fearful  and  un- 
natural in  the  idleness  and  stillness  of  that  busy,  noisy 
place.  The  very  looms  seemed  conscious  of  calamity. 

With  tears  in  his  eyes,  Lancelot  raised  his  hand,  and 
gave  the  order  to  stop  the  machinery.  Then  he 
turned  to  his  people  and  said,  almost  sharply : 

"  Men  and  women,  I  have  done  my  best  and  my 
uttermost." 

There  was  an  indescribable  movement  of  assent  and 
pity,  and  after  a  moment's  pause  the  over-looker  said : 

"  Thou  hes,  master.     We  are  none  likely  to  forget  it." 

They  left  the  mill  very  quietly,  without  a  murmur 
facing  the  inevitable ;  and  Lancelot,  standing  alone 
amid  his  silent  looms,  heard  the  slow,  heavy  steps  of 
the  nine  hundred  go  out  of  his  gates.  In  the  midst  of 
his  own  despondency  he  recognized  their  heroism,  for, 
in  their  way,  these  half-starved  men  and  women  had 
shown  a  self-respect  equal  to  their  master's.  The 
wages  he  had  been  able  to  give  them  was  nearly  two 
shillings  a  week  less  than  the  charity  which  the  relief 
fund  would  have  allowed  them ;  but  not  one  soul  had 
preferred  it.  All  had  worked  manfully  and  woman- 
fully  as  long  as  any  pittance  of  wage  was  possible, 
rather  than  take  the  charity  of  the  nation  until  they 
were  compelled  to  do  so. 


92  LOVE  FOR  A.V  HOUR. 

He  felt  a  sentiment  of  respect — almost  of  hope — as 
he  considered  this  pathetic  perseverance  in  honorable 
independence,  unrecognized  and  unrewarded.  Surely 
what  these  men  and  women  could  do  and  bear  he  also 
could  do  and  bear.  What  if  the  squire  failed  to  ap- 
preciate his  self-denial  ?  What  if  he  had  the  world  to 
begin  over  again  ?  Thousands  of  good  men  were  in 
like  case ;  nothing  more  than  was  common  to  humanity 
had  happened  to  him. 

And  he  had  Francesca's  unvarying  sympathy.  Per- 
haps she  held  privately  some  of  her  father's  opinions, 
but  she  never  allowed  Lancelot  to  know  that  she  did 
so.  In  her  presence  it  was  almost  impossible  for  the 
squire  to  be  less  friendly  to  her  lover  than  he  had  been. 
She  drew  them  together  by  all  those  sweet,  affectionate 
arts  which  good  women  know  and  never  have  to  learn. 

Loida  was  also  true  as  steel,  for  Loida  had  very 
old-fashioned  ideas  about  love.  She  believed  a  lover 
in  trouble  ought  to  be  twice  as  dear ;  she  scorned  the 
idea  of  deserting  him  for  any  financial  cause ;  she  told 
Francesca  plainly  that  her  troth-plight  was  as  sacred  as 
a  wedding-plight,  and  that  so  long  as  Lancelot  was 
personally  worthy  of  her  love  she  would  be  base  and 
cruel  to  take  back  her  gift.  Yes,  indeed,  with  some 
misgivings,  the  dear  lady  thought,  "  It  might  be  the 
duty  and  privilege  of  some  women  to  love  on,  even  if 
their  love  seemed  to  be  unwisely  given." 

Francesca  listened  to  such  advices  with  cordial  ap- 
proval. They  agreed  with  her  own  ideas ;  for  though 
Lancelot  handsome,  rich,  joyful,  successful  was  very 
dear  to  her  heart,  Lancelot  handsome,  poor,  unhappy, 
the  victim  of  unavoidable  and  unmerited  misfortune, 


"IT  HAS    TO  BE  BORNE."  93 

was  a  thousand  times  dearer.  In  the  early  days  of 
their  love  Lancelot  had  been  the  lord  and  giver  of 
happiness ;  but  now  she  was  the  lady  of  all  consola- 
tions ;  and  even  in  love  it  was  more  noble  and  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive.  Never  had  Lancelot  been  to 
Francesca  so  endearing  as  when  he  came  to  her  in 
trouble  to  be  comforted. 

It  was  at  this  time  the  squire  began  to  learn  how 
little  real  power  a  man  ha£,  even  in  his  own  house, 
if  there  be  a  majority  of  women  holding  opinions  dif- 
ferent to  his  own.  He  was  not,  indeed,  prevented 
from  expressing  his  views,  but  it  required  a  great 
amount  of  courage  to  do  so ;  for  Francesca  answered 
him  silently  in  looks  of  amazement  and  indignant  re- 
proach, or  else  she  obviously  gathered  up  her  sewing 
and  left  the  room  in  such  marked  distress  that  he  felt 
as  if  he  had  wounded  a  singing-bird  or  done  some 
other  despicable  and  inexcusable  act  of  cowardice. 
Then  Miss  Vyner  would  say  calmly :  "  Squire,  I  am 
astonished  at  you!"  or,  "Whatever  has  changed  you 
so  much,  brother  ?  "  Or,  if  his  offense  was  very  bad, 
she  appeared  too  much  hurt  to  question  him  at  all,  and 
the  miserable  gentleman  was  made  to  feel,  at  the  same 
moment,  that  he  was  brutally  cruel  and  yet  shamefully 
misunderstood. 

Mournful  enough  was  the  farewell  Lancelot  took  of 
his  love  before  he  left  Atherton.  It  was  impossible  to 
say  how  long  it  might  be  ere  he  could  return  in  circum- 
stances which  would  warrant  the  renewal  of  his  offer 
of  marriage.  He  was  almost  penniless.  He  feared  his 
father  was  in  a  similar  condition.  The  only  plan  he 
had  for  retrieving  his  fortune  implied  an  expatriation 


94  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

from  England.  He  thought  it  possible  to  buy  cotton 
in  Mexico.  Thousands  of  bales  were  said  to  be  passed 
through  Texas,  across  the  Rio  Grande,  to  the  Mexican 
territory.  From  some  Mexican  port,  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  ship  it  to  Liverpool.  The  squire  thought  it  a 
highly  feasible  speculation.  He  knew  that  there  were 
a  great  many  spinners  who  had  money  lying  idle ;  he 
supposed  they  would  be  glad  to  send  out  a  young  man 
full  of  enterprise  and  spirit,  and  as  to  blockade-running, 
every  one  was  aware  that  fabulous  fortunes  were  made 
very  quickly  by  it. 

Lancelot  talked  his  plan  over  with  Francesca,  and 
such  discussions  brought  them  very  close  together. 
Love,  and  love  only,  is  cloying  sweet ;  but  wonder  and 
fear,  the  sense  of  distance  and  strangeness,  the  assur- 
ances and  despondencies,  the  possible  glory  of  a  glad  re- 
turn, all  these  things  were  strong,  pungent  flavors,  tinct- 
uring the  sentiment  with  emotions  that  blended  together 
the  romance  of  love  and  the  delightful  confidences  and 
reliances  of  a  still  closer  and  dearer  tie! 

"  I  will  never  forget  you !  Never  cease  one  moment 
to  love  you !  My  own !  My  sweet  Francesca ! "  said 
Lancelot,  one  night  in  July,  as  they  stood  together  in 
the  clematis  arbor. 

He  had  come  to  say  "  Good-bye."  He  knew  not 
for  how  long.  It  might  be  for  a  year,  or  for  many 
years.  It  might  be  forever.  But  in  any  case,  he  vowed, 
with  all  the  passionate  tenderness  of  first  love,  with 
tears,  with  fond  embraces,  with  sweet,  long,  sorrowful 
kisses,  never!  never!  never!  to  be  faithless  to  Fran- 
cesca. 

Francesca  echoed  every  vow.     Her  lovely  face,  pale 


"IT  HAS    TO  BE  BORNE."  .  95 

as  the  pale  flowers  around  them,  was  transfigured  with 
her  love.  The  soul  shone  through  the  flesh,  and  made 
it  luminous.  Her  eyes  were  starlike.  She  made  a 
kind  of  glory  where  she  stood.  For  those  few  last 
moments  she  threw  aside  the  usual  sweet  reserve  of  her 
manner.  She  put  her  arms  around  her  lover's  neck. 
She  put  her  lips  to  his  lips.  She  kissed  her  promises  on 
them.  The  tears  that  fell  from  her  eyes  were  on  his 
cheeks. 

"  Forever  and  ever  I  am  yours,  and  yours  only ! " 
she  said. 

"  Forever  and  forever  I  am  yours,  my  love,"  he 
answered ;  and  the  strong,  sweetly  solemn  words  fell 
slowly,  one  by  one,  into  her  heart,  each  sealed  with  the 
sorrowful  kiss  of  a  long  farewell. 

He  left  her  in  the  arbor,  and  she  watched,  him  going 
down  the  terrace-steps  in  the  moonlight  as  she  had 
watched  him  at  their  first  meeting  coming  up  them  in 
the  sunshine.  He  went  slowly,  step  by  step,  out  of  her 
sight,  and  she  stood  like  one  entranced  till  he  had  gone 
beyond  her  vision — till  the  very  echo  of  his  last  foot- 
falls was  inaudible. 

Miss  Loida  had  permitted  and  guarded  this  lonely 
parting.  When  it  was  over  she  went  to  her  niece  and 
let  her  weep  in  her  arms. 

"  Tears  will  wash  away  the  bitterness  of  grief,"  she 
said.  "  But  he  will  come  back,  Francesca.  He  will 
come  back,  my  dear.  I  know  he  will." 

"  No,  he  will  not  come  back,  Aunt  Loida.  There 
is  a  weight  of  death  on  my  heart.  I  shall  never,  never 
see  him  again." 

"  Do  not  bespeak  such  ill  fortune  for  him  and  foi 


96  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

yourself.  O  Francesca!  Good  comes  to  the  call  of 
hope,  and  not  to  the  cry  of  despair.  Go  to  your  room, 
my  dear  girl,  and  tell  all  your  fear  and  sorrow  to  the 
good  God.  Like  a  Father,  He  pities  His  children  ;  like 
a  Father  who  has  both  the  power  and  the  will  to  make 
His  children  happy.  He  will  take  care  of  Lancelot." 

"  But  you  do  not  know  what  I  suffer,  Aunt  Loida. 
I  am  broken-hearted." 

"  Good  hearts,  brave  hearts,  faithful  hearts,  do  not 
break,  Francesca.  They  go  on  loving  and  hoping. 
And  I  know!  I  know!  I  have  suffered.  I  once 
thought  I  should  die  of  suffering.  But,  Francesca,  the 
rose-tree  stripped  of  every  rose  does  not  wither  away 
and  die  down  to  its  very  roots.  It  bears  its  loss,  and 
when  the  spring  comes  again  it  buds  and  blossoms,  and 
is  fairer  and  sweeter  than  ever.  Can  you  not  be  as 
strong  and  brave,  and  as  true  to  yourself  and  to  all  who 
look  to  you  for  joy  and  comfort  ?  " 

But  in  reality  Loida  knew  that  for  heart-grief  there 
is  no  known  consolation.  //  has  to  be  borne.  Comfort 
cannot  be  given.  It  must  spring  from  the  very  root  of 
sorrow.  When  she  left  her  niece,  Francesca  was  kneel- 
ing at  her  bedside,  sobbing  with  all  the  pitiful  surrender 
to  the  inexorable  that  youth  feels.  For  the  heart  is  long 
in  learning  that  tears  are  useless.  Perhaps  at  three- 
score we  may  accept  with  dry  eyes  the  blow  we  cannot 
escape. 

In  some  respects  Lancelot  was  more  to  be  pitied  than 
was  Francesca,  for  the  sorrow  poverty  mingles  is  hardest 
of  all  to  bear.  It  might  be  good  for  him  to  have  to 
make  a  struggle  for  daily  bread,  but  he  did  not  realize 
the  good.  He  was  altogether  averse  to  overcoming  the 


"IT  HAS    TO  BE  BORNE."  97 

world,  in  the  sense  of  breaking  into  its  storehouses  and 
getting  at  its  gold  and  silver.  They  say  in  Yorkshire 
that  any  fool  can  make  money  if  he  throws  his  soul  into 
it  and  loses  his  soul  for  it.  Lancelot  wanted  to  make 
money,  but  he  did  not  want  to  lose  his  soul  or  his  honor 
or  his  self-respect  in  order  to  make  it.  Whatever,  then, 
his  prospects  were,  with  this  weak  spot  in  his  heart, 
there  was  more  to  fear  than  to  hope. 

He  felt  also  a  strange  despondency,  one  not  to  be 
referred  to  his  parting  with  Francesca.  His  senses  were 
dull,  their  edges  rebated ;  he  was  sure  some  ill,  not  ap- 
prehended, was  approaching.  And  the  feeling  was  like 
a  lazy  frost  to  his  mind ;  it  locked  up  all  the  vigor  to 
attempt  enterprise,  by  barely  crying,  "It  is  impossible!" 

He  reached  home  sorrowful  and  despondent.  His 
mother  was  standing  at  the  door  as  he  rode  up  to  it. 

"  I  saw  thee  coming,"  she  said.  "  It  is  time  thou 
came.  Thy  father  is  very  ill.  I  heard  the  '  death-pad ' 
last  night.  It  walked  from  midnight  till  dawn  above 
his  head." 

Lancelot  looked  intently  at  his  mother,  and  his  heart 
trembled.  She  was  gray  as  ashes.  Her  eyes  wandered. 
He  said,  "  Mother,  you  are  ill ;  "  but  she  answered 
sharply : 

'  Not  I !  I  tell  thee  thy  father  is  ill.  He  hes  been 
asking  for  thee  all  day  long.  Go  thy  ways  to  him." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    HOUSE    OF    DEATH. 

All  houses  wherein  men  have  lived  and  died 
Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open  doors 

The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

— Longfellow. 

Go  to  thy  rest.     A  quiet  bed 
Meek  Mother  Earth  with  turf  shall  spread, 
Where  I  no  more  thy  sleep  may  break 
With  fevered  dream. — Sigoumey. 

CiNCELOT  went  at  once  to  his  father's  chamber. 
The  low  oaken  room  was  nearly  dark,  the  air  heavy 
with  fever  and  the  sickly  odor  of  drugs.  Stephen,  flushed 
and  restless,  had  heard  his  son's  step,  and  was  watching 
eagerly  for  his  entrance. 

"  My  dear  lad,"  he  said,  "  there  is  something  wrong  wi' 
me — something  more  than  common.  And  the  doctor 
doesn't  do  me  a  bit  of  good.  I  think,  mebbe,  I  am 
going  to  die." 

"  O  father!  Life  is  such  a  weariness,  I  wish  I  could 
go  with  you." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Lance !  Bide  where  thou  art.  Thou 
knaws  what  Yorkshire  is.  And  getting  out  of  life  before 
you  hev  earned  your  grave  is,  mebbe,  like  running  away 
from  school.  Happen  you'll  hev  to  come  back,  and 
learn  your  lesson  over  again." 


THE  HOUSE   OF  DEATH.  99 

"  But  I  am  going  away  from  Yorkshire,  from  England, 
from  all  I  love." 

"  Why-a!     Whativer  is  ta  up  to  ? " 

Then  Lancelot  explained  his  plan,  and  Stephen 
thought  very  highly  of  it. 

"  If  good  luck  isn't  here  it  must  be  somewhere  in  the 
world,  and  it  isn't  a  bad  thing  in  thee  to  go  and  seek  it. 
As  for  me,  I  am  fighting  to  the  last  gasp.  I  mean  to 
keep  fast  hold  on  Garsby  Mill,  if  all  else  hes  to  go. 
Peace  is  bound  to  come  soon,  Lance,  and  then  a  year 
or  two  will  put  iverything  right  again.  Thou  must  speak 
to  thy  mother.  She  is  varry  unreasonable.  She  would 
let  the  mill  and  all  its  twelve  hundred  looms  and  grand 
machinery  tumble  down  and  rust  to  bits  rather  than  hev 
an  old  chair  or  an  old  china  tea-cup  bring  a  penny  to 
save  us." 

"  On  the  subject  of  Leigh  Farm,  I  am  afraid,  father, 
she  will  not  listen  to  reason." 

-  "  I  am  Leigh  as  much  as  she  is ;  but  if  the  Leighs 
behind  me  know  no  more  than  to  set  store  by  things 
that  are  no  use  to  live  by  or  live  with,  I  would  just  as 
lief  hev  their  disapproval  as  their  good  will — I  would 
that!  I'm  none  afraid  of  them,  living  or  dead.  Thou 
wilt  not  leave  me  till  I  am  better,  Lance  ? " 

"  Not  for  the  world,  father!  Not  until  you  feel  sure 
it  is  safe  to  leave  you." 

"  That  is  as  it  should  be.  I  would  stay  by  thee.  Go 
now  and  get  a  bit  of  supper." 

"Father,  would  you  like  to  see  the  rector?" 

"  What  for  ?  Does  ta  think  I  cannot  speak  to  my 
Maker  without  a  priest  to  go  between  us  ?  Nay,  nay  ; 
I  went  straight  to  Him  last  night,  and  I  said  my  say — 


IOO  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

'  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner ! '  Is  there  aught  else  I 
I  hev  tried  to  do  to  my  neighbor  as  I  would  hev  him 
do  to  me,  and  it's  a  good  bit  harder  to  love  your  neigh- 
bor than  it  is  to  love  God  Almighty.  Does  ta  think  I 
am  feared  to  go  to  the  God  who  made  me  f  Not  I. 
He'll  be  no  harder  to  me  than  I  would  be  to  thee ;  and, 
God  love  thee,  Lance,  I  would  lay  my  life  down  for  thy 
life — I  would  indeed!" 

Lance  stooped  and  kissed  the  large,  hot  face,  and 
Stephen  continued,  with  a  smile : 

"  I  hevn't  been  a  church-goer — I  knaw  that.  My 
mother  took  me  once  to  get  christened,  and  thy  mother 
took  me  once  to  get  married ;  and  I  hope,  when  I  go 
again,  thou  and  a  few  that  love  me  will  go  with  me. 
But  I  shall  not  be  tried  for  eternity  on  that  question. 
If  I  am,  I  hev  a  text  ready — one  my  mother  made  me 
learn  when  I  was  a  little  lad,  and  I  hevn't  done  so  bad 
in  setting  my  life  to  it — '  And  what  doth  the  Lord  thy 
God  require  of  thee  but  to  fear  the  Lord  thy  God,  to 
walk  in  all  His  ways,  and  to  love  Him ;  and  to  serve  the 
Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and  with  all  thy  soul.' 
He  can't  ask  me  for  more  than  to  keep  His  awn  laws,  and 
I  hev  tried  to  do  that  much — I  hev,  I  hev,  indeed ! " 

"  I  do  believe  you,  father." 

"  And  as  for  the  day  o'  death,  it  is  a  day  to  be  fear- 
less and  strong,  and  to  put  away  fears,  if  you  iver  had 
any.  There  is  no  '  blessed,'  my  lad,  for  the  despairing ; 
neither  in  this  world  nor  in  that  beyond  it." 

Lancelot  was  astonished  and  troubled  to  hear  his 
father's  words.  He  had  never  before  seen  this  side  of 
his  father's  character.  He  had  not,  indeed,  suspected 
that  such  a  side  existed,  for  there  are  periods,  especially 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  IOI 

in  middle  age,  when  religious  life  seems  to  have  lost  all 
potency,  and  all  controlling  power  over  the  individual. 
But  this  is  no  proof  that  religious  life  does  not  exist ; 
it  may  merely  be  flowing  through  unseen  and  unsus- 
pected channels — channels  too  deep  for  mortal  ken  or 
observation. 

Certainly  the  conversation  seemed  to  give  Stephen 
pleasure.  He  evidently,  at  this  uncertain  hour,  wished 
his  son  to  know  that  he  had  never  been  without  religious 
instincts  and  aspirations ;  and  that  he  found  the  com- 
forts of  the  God  he  had  worshiped  in  secret  to  be  suffi- 
cient for  his  extremity.  Indeed,  he  was  far  more  anxious 
and  uneasy  about  the  affairs  of  this  life  than  about  any- 
thing that  was  to  come  after  it.  He  heard  his  wife's 
steps,  and  it  recalled  him  at  once  to  the  actual. 

"  Go  down  to  thy  mother,  Lance,"  he  said.  "  She  is 
a  bit  trying  these  days.  Thou  must  be  patient  with  her. 
We  all  hev  a  weak  side :  mine  is  my  mill ;  hers  is  her 
house ;  and  thine,  I'll  be  bound,  is  that  bonny  lass  of 
Atherton's.  Kiss  me  again.  Eh!  Lance — Lance!  I 
can't  help  thinking  of  the  days  when  thou  wert  a  baby, 
and  I  carried  thee  on  my  shoulder,  and  next  my  heart.- 
I  can  feel  thy  little  hands  yet  about  my  neck,"  and  he 
lifted  his  large,  trembling  hands,  and  drew  his  son's  face 
down,  and  looked  steadily  into  it,  and  said  solemnly: 
"  God  bless  thee,  my  dear,  dear  Lance! " 

"  My  dear,  dear  father! " 

"  Thou  wilt  come  a  bit  after  me,  but  I  shall  find  thee 
out  in  the  next  world.  I  shall  know  thee  by  thy  loving 
eyes  and  thy  likeness  to  mysen,  and  by  that  sweet, 
sweet  voice  of  thine.  Leave  me  now.  I'd  like  to  be 
a  bit  by  mysen." 


IO2  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Lancelot  met  his  mother  on  the  stairs ;  he  took  her 
hand  and  walked  to  the  parlor  with  her.  As  they  went, 
she  said,  in  a  melancholy  way : 

"  There  is  a  cup  of  tea  ready  for  thee." 

The  room  was  as  spotless  and  orderly  as  if  there  was 
no  sickness  near  the  place.  The  birds  twittered  in  the 
ivy  outside,  and  the  scent  of  the  wall-flowers  came  in 
through  the  open  window.  The  great  change  was  in 
his  mother's  face.  It  had  always  been  a  grave  face ;  it 
was  now  almost  a  hopeless  one.  Lance  had  never  con- 
ceived of  a  human  countenance  so  full  of  something  that 
was  superhuman — yet  not  pleasantly  so. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  your  father?  "  she  asked,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  floor. 

"  I  think  he  is  very  sick.     What  doctor  has  he  ?  " 

"  Doctor  Thorpe.     He  is  as  good  as  any." 

"  I  would  send  to  Leeds  for  the  best  in  the  town.  I 
will  go  myself  to-night." 

"  Nay,  you  won't.  Your  father  is  going  to  die.  No 
one  can  help  him." 

"  How  can  you  talk  so  calmly  of  such  a  calamity, 
mother  ?  " 

"  It  will  mebbe  be  the  varry  best  thing  that  could 
happen.  The  Bible  says  that  no  man  lives  or  dies  to 
or  for  himsen  ;  he  hes  to  live  for  those  behind  him  and 
those  that  come  after  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  mother? " 

"  If  he  would  keep  his  fingers  off  Leigh  House,  them 
that  live  in  its  rooms  unseen  would  keep  their  hands  off 
him.  Did  he  tell  thee  he  was  going  to  mortgage  house 
and  land  to  Joshua  Newby  ? "  Her  face  had  become 
scarlet,  her  eyes  blazed;  she  was  the  incarnation  of 


THE  HOUSE   OF  DEATH,  103 

indignant  wrong.  "  If  he  will  worry  them  that  are 
stronger  than  he  is,  he  must  sup  the  cup  they  mix  for 
him.  I  hev  told  him — I  hev  warned  him — warned  him, 
and  better  warned  him." 

"  Mother,  you  let  your  affection  for  your  family  and 
your  house  run  away  with  your  best  part.  My  father's 
life  is  worth  all  the  old  houses  in  the  world." 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  thee  talk  in  that  way !  What- 
iver  will  I  do  ?  Whativer  will  I  do  ? " 

"  Do  the  best  possible  to  save  father's  life.  I  am 
going  for  another  doctor." 

"  Thorpe  knows.     Thorpe  hes  known  him  all  his  life." 

"  Still,  I  will  have  another  doctor." 

"As  ta  likes." 

She  was  now  sullen  and  silent,  and  appeared  to  fall 
into  a  condition  of  hopeless  indifference.  Lance  could 
not  eat ;  he  drank  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  rode  into 
Leeds  for  advice.  The  physician  he  brought  spoke  of 
fever  and  of  the  man's  gigantic  strength,  and  the  struggle 
there  might  be  between  life  and  death.  Indeed,  the 
patient  was  already  delirious,  and  difficult  to  manage. 
For  many  days  and  nights  Lancelot  never  left  his 
father.  In  the  land  of  the  shadow  of  death,  he  kept 
close  by  his  side.  Sometimes  the  sick  man  called  him 
frantically  in  cries  full  of  suffering,  and  sometimes  in 
the  fearsome  whispers  of  agonized  terror. 

"  I  am  here,  father!  Close  by  your  side.  I  will  not 
leave  you!" 

In  such  assurances  over  and  over,  with  exhausting 
monotonous  repetitions,  Lancelot  passed  many  days 
of  anguish  and  nights  of  anxious  fear.  For  he  had  a 
highly  sensitive  nature,  responsive  to  all  unseen  in- 


104  LOVE  FOR  A-v 

fluences,  and  he  could  not  escape  either  the  one  or  the 
other. 

At  midnight,  when  his  mother  wandered  restlessly  from 
room  to  room,  muttering  indistinguishable  words,  falling 
upon  her  knees  in  speechless  anguish,  and  the  dying 
man  whispered  awfully  from  far,  far  off,  the  weight  of 
untold  years  was  upon  Lancelot — indistinct  memories — 
no  thought  embodied,  but  weight  and  power — and  an 
obscure  sense  of  the  soul  looking  backward  and  forward 
through  endless  vistas.  Then  the  atmosphere  of  the 
ancient  rooms  was  heavy  with  life  that  breathed  not ; 
with  powers  that  touched  him  to  the  quick,  in  moods 
which  he  had  no  senses  to  explain ;  with  flashes  of  illu- 
-  mination  from  the  inner  side  of  life ;  vague  terrors  of 
nameless  things  ;  vague  conceptions  of  times  before  this 
life  began,  and  he  seemed  to  miss  his  foothold  in  it  and 
to  fall  into  dreams  whose  unutterable  desolation  cast  a 
shadow  over  him,  even  in  the  summer  sunshine. 

Steadily  the  strong  man  marched  to  death.  There 
was  some  wonder  at  the  inefficiency  of  all  remedies,  and 
Doctor  Thorpe  questioned  Lancelot  sharply  about  the 
administration  of  them. 

"  Whether  your  father  be  conscious  or  unconscious, 
they  must  be  given  him  regularly,"  he  said.  "They 
cannot  be  neglected." 

"  They  are  not  neglected,  sir.  My  mother  watches 
the  clock,  and  brings  them  at  the  very  moment  with  her 
own  hand." 

"  Your  mother  brings  them  ? " 

"  Yes.  This  room  is  too  dark  to  measure  them  with 
safety  and  absolute  correctness.  We  were  fearful  they 
would  be  given  in  wrong  quantities.  Mother  took  them 


THE  HOUSE   OF  DEATH.  105 

to  the  parlor.  No  medicines  could  be  more  carefully 
attended  to." 

The  doctor  said  no  more  ;  he  sat  down  and  waited. 
In  a  short  time  Martha  Leigh  entered,  with  a  glass  in 
her  hand.  He  took  it  from  her  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Martha,  this  is  plain  water.  Have  you  forgotten 
the  drops  ?  They  are  most  important ;  they  are  life  or 
death!" 

He  gave  her  the  cup  back,  and  she  left  the  room 
without  a  word. 

"  Look  after  the  medicine  yourself,"  he  said  to  Lance- 
lot. "  Your  mother  is  troubled  and  weary,  you  ought 
not  to  rely  on  her." 

The  words  appeared  to  be  kind  and  considerate  words, 
but  they  were  negatived  by  the  tone  in  which  they  were 
uttered.  A  fear  he  durst  not  think  of  came  into  Lance- 
lot's heart.  He  was  stricken  for  a  moment  dumb  and 
motionless.  The  doctor  had  left  the  room ;  he  was 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  looking,  with  a  sorrow- 
ful uncertainty,  back  into  it,  when  Lancelot  approached 
him.  Then  he  began  to  descend  the  steps,  but  the  mis- 
erable young  man  arrested  him. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  you  have  known  me  all  my  life. 
What  do  you  want  to  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing  but  what  I  have  said.  YoUf  mother  is  not 
fit  to  trust  with  the  medicines.  Drop  the  tinctures  with 
your  own  hand.  Do  not  ask  me  any  questions,  Lance. 
I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you." 

"  My  father  ? n 

"  Is  very  ill.  He  will  probably  die  before  sunrise.  I 
was  going  to  tell  your  mother.  I  will  leave  the  office  to 
you." 


106  LOl'E   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  Is  there  no  hope,  sir  ?  " 

"  It  is  too  late  to  hope  now.  How  could  you  be  so 
careless?  Had  I  known!  Had  I  suspected!  Yet  I 
did  wonder.  How  was  it  you  never  told  me  ? " 

He  asked  the  question  suspiciously,  with  a  certain 
fierceness  of  manner,  and  then,  shaking  his  hand  free 
from  Lancelot's,  went  from  the  house. 

For  a  moment  Lancelot  stood  where  he  left  him. 
His  face  was  scarlet.  He  trembled  with  anguish.  If  a 
stranger  had  heard  him  accused  of  a  crime,  they  would 
certainly  have  said:  "The  man  is  guilty." 

Recovering  himself,  he  went  back  to  the  sick-room, 
shielded  the  candle  again,  looked  tenderly  at  the  pros- 
trate figure  lying  with  face  upturned  to  heaven,  white  as 
clay,  without  sight,  thought,  or  feeling,  only  not  dead, 
and  then,  with  passionate  haste,  he  went  to  the  parlor. 
His  mother  sat  in  a  chair  by  the  hearth.  Her  hands 
were  dropped.  She  was  gray  and  cold,  and  unrespon- 
sive to  her  son's  entrance.  He  had  hitherto  respected 
this  attitude.  He  thought  it  to  be  his  mother's  way  of 
bearing  sorrow.  But,  oh!  if  it  should  be  remorse,  and 
not  sorrow.  He  stood  before  her,  and  she  looked  up 
and  then  down. 

"  Mother,  do  you  know  that  father  is  dying  ?  He  will 
not  live  another  day.  O  mother!  mother!" 

"  I  told  thee  he  would  die.  He  hed  to  die.  It  is 
his  awn  fault." 

"You  want  me  to  think  that  his  forefathers  killed 
him  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  they  did." 

"  Then  I  hate  them  all — every  one  of  them,  man, 
woman,  or  child,  that  hurt  him !  The  dearest  father,  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  1 07 

noblest  soul  that  ever  lived!  O  father!  My  father! 
Lance  would  have  died  for  you,  as  you  would  for  him ! " 

"  Wilt  thou  be  quiet  ?  It  is  a  shame  of  thee.  Hating 
thy  awn,  and  daring  to  say  it,  too.  Don't  thee  speak  to 
me.  I  won't  listen  to  thee." 

."  I  tell  you  father  is  dying.  The  doctor  says  he 
is  afraid  he  has  not — had  his  medicines.  O  God! 
O  mother!  mother!" 

She  had  risen  in  her  passion,  but  she  sat  down  at  his 
appeal  and  laughed  in  a  low,  miserable  way,  muttering 
to  herself  as  she  did  so. 

"What  are  you  saying,  mother?" 

"  I  will  tell  thee,  if  ta  wants  to  know.  I  am  saying 
that  old  Joshua  Newby  may  come  now  with  his  papers. 
Thy  father's  hand  will  never  sign  Leigh  away  to  him. 
He  hes  been  here  ivery  day  for  two  weeks  to  get  thy 
father's  name.  Thank  God  Almighty  he  will  niver  get 
it  now.  Better  a  clay  hand  than  a  false  hand !  " 

"  Give  me  my  father's  medicines." 

"Ay,  thou  can  take  them  now." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel  wife !  " 

"  Cruel!  Little  thou  knows.  Hes  thou  a  fire  in  thy 
heart  and  thy  brain  burning  thee  up  bit  by  bit  while 
thou  art  quick  and  living  ?  Hes  thou  seen  what  I  hev 
seen,  or  heard  what  I  hev  heard  ?  Hes  thou  sat  with  the 
dead,  and  been  sent  to  do  their  bidding  and  their  will 
for  them  ?  Go  thy  ways,  and  don't  thee  dare  to  speak 
to  me  again  till  ta  knows  what  thou  art  talking  about." 

"  Do  you  know  that  Doctor  Thorpe  suspects  you  of 
letting  my  father  die  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him  a  word.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  his  father's  empty  chair.  A  sudden  breeze  blew 


108  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

the  white  shade  sharply  against  the  window  and  brought 
into  the  room  the  scent  of  wall-flowers.  The  little  blow 
startled  and  hurt  Lancelot ;  he  never  more  could  endure 
the  woody  perfume.  He  lifted  the  medicine  vials  and 
went  upstairs.  There  are  moments  when  all  men  weep. 
They  may  do  it  in  secret,  but,  none  the  less,  they  cover 
their  faces,  and  their  palms  are  wet  with  the  bitter  rain. 
And  when  Lancelot  sat  down  again  in  the  gloom  of  his 
father's  death-bed,  and  saw  the  white,  helpless  figure, 
and  thought  of  the  "  peradventure "  that  might  have 
been,  he  broke  utterly  down.  Low  sobs  shook  him 
from  head  to  feet ;  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
knelt  down  by  the  dear  father  who  would  know  him  no 
more  in  this  world. 

All  night  he  kept  his  lonely  watch,  and  all  alone  he 
helplessly  witnessed  the  last  struggle  of  the  departing 
soul.  He  was  unspeakably  wretched,  for  he  had  real- 
ized the  wrong  done  only  when  it  was  too  late  in  any 
way  to  atone  for  it.  The  medicine  vials  accused  him ; 
he  could  not  bear  to  touch  them,  he  could  not  bear  to 
see  them.  An  awful  stillness  was  in  the  house,  a  still- 
ness pervaded  by  spiritual  life.  Lancelot  felt  it  press 
upon  him  on  every  side,  and  he  resented  the  intrusion. 
With  his  open  Bible  in  his  hands  he  stood  by  his  father's 
head  and  recited  over  and  over  the  verses  of  the  twenty- 
third  Psalm.  His  low,  clear  voice,  solemn  and  tender, 
penetrated  the  heavy  shadows  of  the  room,  and  his 
mother,  stealing  without  her  shoes  to  the  shut  door, 
heard  him  say :  "'I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  Thou  art  with 
me.' " 

Perhaps  also  the  comfortable  words  went  with  the 
departing  soul,  for  in  those  ineffable  moments  just  before 


THE   HOUSE  OF  DEATH.         .          1 09 

the  dawn,  Lancelot,  looking  into  his  father's  face,  saw 
a  flash  of  parting  intelligence,  swift,  and  vivid  as  light- 
ning. 

"Father!  Farewell,  father,"  he  whispered  close  on 
the  dying  man's  lips ;  and  instantly,  from  some  mysteri- 
ous distance,  in  tones  sweetly  hollow,  like  muffled  music, 
came  the  answer : 

"  Lance! — my  dear  lad! — Good-bye!  " 
Then  Lancelot  was  holding  a  clay-cold  hand.  He 
kissed  it,  and  laid  it  across  the  quiet  heart.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  regarding  the  empty  soul-case,  the 
massive  chest,  the  length  and  strength  of  limb,  the  large 
head — all  the  noble  similitude  of  a  man  prostrated  in 
the  summer  of  his  life.  "  O  harmless  Death!"  thought 
Lancelot,  as  he  softly  left  the  dead  man's  chamber — 

"  O  harmless  Death!   whom  still  the  valiant  brave, 

The  wise  expect,  the  sorrowful  invite, 
And  all  the  good  embrace,  who  know  the  grave 
The  short  dark  passage  to  eternal  light." 

The  words  were  uncalled ;  they  came  as  if  sent,  and 
said  themselves  with  sweet  insistence,  as  he  descended 
the  stairs. 

The  house  was  still  as  a  grave,  the  dawn  was  only 
breaking ;  he  had  a  thought  that  his  mother  might  be 
asleep  in  some  upper  room ;  but  yet  he  went  on  to  the 
parlor.     She  was  sitting  there,  she  was  quite  awake,  she 
looked  up  at  Lancelot  with  the  inquiry  in  her  eyes. 
"Yes,  he  is  dead!     He  is  dead!     O  father!    father!" 
"  Be  quiet.     He  hed  to  die.     Do  I  make  a  moan 
about  it  f     Call  Dinah  to  make  thee  a  cup  of  coffee.     I 
am  going  to  thy  father  now. 


IIO  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

If  he  had  been  able  to  reproach  her  at  this  minute, 
he  would  not  have  done  so.  She  looked  at  him  with 
an  air  of  defiance  he  had  no  heart  to  gainsay.  He  sat 
down,  and  Martha  Leigh  went  at  once  to  her  dead  hus- 
band. Lancelot  heard  her  moving  about,  heard  her 
opening  drawers,  heard  her  fling  wide  the  sashes,  heard 
her  unlock  a  door  little  used,  and  go  up  the  narrow 
stairs  to  the  garret ;  and  then  a  quick,  sick  fear  came 
into  his  heart.  Would  she  end  her  remorse  by  death  ? 
Would  she  follow  her  husband  through  the  great  sid- 
ereal spaces,  and  defend  herself  to  him  ?  " 

He  was  asking  such  questions  as  he  sped  rapidly  after 
her.  At  the  foot  of  the  garret  stairs  they  were  answered. 
She  had  locked  the  door  within,  but  he  heard  her  im- 
ploring, justifying,  speaking  to  the  dead  man  and  the 
living  God  in  an  agony  of  entreaty  and  protestation. 
At  length  she  began  to  weep,  to  sob,  to  cry  out,  like  a 
woman  in  strong  physical  pain  might  cry. 

He  stood  still,  with  lips  firmly  set  and  face  as  white 
as  death.  If  all  had  been  silent,  he  would  have  broken 
open  the  lock  and  gone  to  her.  Death  he  must  prevent, 
but  suffering —  No!  She  ought  to  suffer.  It  was  her 
only  chance  for  salvation.  Yet  he  watched  with  her — 
watched  until  he  heard  her  slowly  coming  down  the 
stair.  Then  he  went  to  his  own  room  and  put  away 
some  things  he  valued,  and  packed  a  small  trunk  which 
he  intended  to  take  with  him. 

Among  his  music  he  founa  the  song  he  had  written, 
"  To  Francesca,"  rare  Ben  Jonson's  rare  love-song.  He 
put  it  to  his  lips  with  passionate  longing  and  distress. 
Never  again  would  he  hold  her  dear  hand,  and  sing  it 
to  her  smiles  and  kisses.  He  was  the  son  of  a  woman 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  1 1  I 

who  had — let  her  husband  die.  He  could  not  say,  he 
could  not  endure  to  think,  the  one  awful  word  which 
yet  lay  in  his  deepest  consciousness,  which  he  passed 
by  with  shut  eyes  and  forced  oblivion.  He  was  her 
son.  How,  then,  could  he  be  Francesca's  lover  ?  How 
could  he  ever  hope  to  be  her  husband  ?  The  tender- 
ness, the  sweetness,  the  purity  of  the  one  woman  stood 
afar  off  from  the  cruelty,  the  hardness,  the  earthliness 
of  the  other. 

Yet  his  mother  was  his  mother.  Her  blood  beat  in 
his  heart ;  she  was  part  and  parcel  of  his  personality. 
He  could  no  more  escape  from  her  than  he  could  alter 
the  color  of  his  hair,  or  take  an  inch  from  his  stature. 
He  told  himself  that  he  would  not  escape  from  her  if 
he  could ;  she  was  still  his  mother.  He  found  it  already 
possible  to  begin  looking  for  excuses  for  her;  physi- 
cal reasons  and  extremities  for  her  act ;  assuring  him- 
self, as  a  final  and  decisive  cause,  that  his  father  still 
loved  her.  He  had  now  supernatural  insights,  he  would 
know  the  spring  of  her  deliberate  cruelty,  he  would  have 
forgiven  her ;  at  least,  he  would  wish  him  to  protect  her 
as  far  as  it  was  possible. 

How  far  that  should  be  was  the  question  Lancelot 
had  now  to  answer.  But  his  mind  was  in  a  tumult ;  he 
could  not  think.  How,  then,  could  he  decide  ?  In  an 
hour  his  mother  called  him. 

"  There  is  a  bit  of  breakfast  ready,"  she  said.  "  Thou 
hed  better  eat,  if  ta  wants  to  act  like  a  sensible  man." 

He  wondered  how  he  could  bear  to  sit  at  the  table 
and  break  bread  with  her.  Perhaps  she  had  thought 
of  this  difficulty ;  the  table  was  only  laid  for  him. 

"  I  hev  hed  all  I  want,"  she  said. 


112  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Then  he  had  a  moment's  relenting,  and  he  answered : 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  cup  of  coffee,  mother." 

"  I  hev  hed  what  I  want.  Thou  knows  I  never  was 
one  to  eat  and  drink.  What  hes  ta  dressed  thysen  for? 
Where  is  ta  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  into  Leeds.  There  are  things  to  attend 
to." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     And  then  ? " 

"  I  am  going  away  from  England — when  I  have  seen 
the  end." 

He  ceased  speaking ;  he  was  visibly  in  the  greatest 
sorrow. 

"  Dry  thy  eyes.  If  there  is  crying  to  do,  I'll  do  it. 
And  thou  art  not  going  away.  Thou  hes  Leigh  now  to 
look  after.  The  varry  garden  would  grow  dazy  and 
lonely  without  a  master  to  walk  in  it.  Thy  place  is 
here,  and  here  thou  must  stop." 

"  I  am  going  to  America — to  Mexico.  If,  as  you  say, 
the  dead  come  back  here,  father  shall  not  find  me  filling 
his  emptied  place.  I'll  touch  nothing  that  was  his.  It 
would  be  taking  stolen  property — worse  still." 

"  Take  care  what  thou  says  to  me." 

Martha  Leigh  was  a  tall,  imposing  woman,  still  hand- 
some ;  and  as  she  warned  Lancelot,  and  stood  up  to 
•do  so,  she  appeared  unnaturally  tall.  Her  large  face 
was  colorless,  her  black  eyes  burned  with  a  sullen  fire, 
and  her  lace  cap,  with  its  wide,  fluted  borders,  gave  her 
the  air  of  a  pythoness  under  excitement.  She  looked 
her  son  steadily  in  the  face,  and  said,  with  a  glance  of 
majestic  defiance: 

"  Be  sparing  of  thy  words  to  me.  Whativer  I  hev  done, 
I  hev  done  well.  It  is  all  right,  and  He  knows  it  now." 


THE  HOUSE   OF  DEATH.  113 

"  How  could  it  be  right  to  treat  my  father  so  cruelly  ?  " 

"  Thy  father  should  hev  done  his  duty  to  them  that 
hed  the  first  claim  on  him.  Why-a!  He  was  on  the 
point  of  selling  his  house  to  save  his  mill!  Did  ta  iver 
hear  tell  of  such  wickedness  ?  Going  to  turn  the  dead 
and  the  living  out,  and  put  strangers — or  worse  still,  the 
Newbys — into  these  rooms.  If  he  was  a  Leigh,  he 
deserved  to  be  sent  where  he  would  learn  his  duty  bet- 
ter. If  he  was  not  a  Leigh,  but  just  some  stray  soul 
that  had  got  away  from  his  awn  people,  then  he  hed  no 
business  here :  and  the  sooner  he  went  to  his  awn,  the 
better  for  him,  and  for  us." 

"  Mother,  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  that  you  are  not 
sane  on  this  subject." 

"  I  am  as  sane  as  thou  art,  and  a  good  bit  saner.  I 
know  what  I  hev  done,  and  I  am  well  pleased  with  my- 
sen  for  doing  it.  Now  then,  do  thy  duty.  I  expect  so 
much  from  thee.  Sell  that  big,  ugly  mill.  Get  rid  of 
them  hundreds  of  men  and  women  who  hev  eaten  up 
all  our  substance.  Set  thysen  to  take  care  of  Leigh 
House  and  Farm,  make  it  fairer  and  bigger  than  iver  it 
was  before,  and  I'll  welcome  any  wife  thou  chooses  to 
bring  here.  And  if  ta  must  hev  something  to  do  that 
is  more  money-making  than  sowing  and  reaping,  study 
and  make  thysen  a  doctor,  or  a  lawyer.  Now  then,  I 
hev  hed  my  say.  Speak  for  thysen." 

"  I  say  that  I  will  touch  nothing  that  was  father's,  and 
still  ought  to  be  father's — neither  mill  nor  house.  I  am 
going  to  Mexico." 

"  And  who  is  to  be  master  of  Leigh  ?  It  hes  niver 
been  without  a  master  before,  not  in  hundreds  of  years." 

"  Do  as  you  will  with  it ;   I  could  not  live  under  this 


114  LOTE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

roof.  O  mother,  mother!  You  have  ruined  my  life 
as  well  as — " 

'  Say  the  words  in  thy  heart,  Lance — '  as  well  as  mur- 
dered my  father.'  I  am  not  .afraid  of  any  word,  and  I 
did  not  murder  him.  I  gave  him  his  chance.  There 
hev  been  hours  lately  when  I  hev  seen  him  talking  to 
Joshua  Newby  that  I  could  hev  stabbed  him  with  the 
knife  I  was  cutting  his  bread  and  meat  with.  I  did  not 
do  it ;  for  thy  sake — for  thy  sake  only.  I  thought  it 
might  hurt  thee  with  that  fine  lass  thou  hes  set  thy  fool- 
ish heart  on — thought  it  might  mebbe  be  a  red  stain  on 
ivery  year  of  thy  life.  So  I  waited,  and  I  gave  him  his 
chance.  He  hed  a  tussle  with  Death,  and  I  neither 
helped  one  or  the  other.  Most  folks  think  doctors  are 
as  much  on  the  side  of  death  as  life." 

"  What  does  father  think  now,  looking  back  upon 
life  ? " 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  he  thinks  different  to  what  he 
did.  If  he  doesn't,  he  is  only  one  against  me,  and  there 
are  hundreds  and  thousands  ready  to  say :  '  Martha 
Leigh  did  right  for  Leigh.'  The  land  stays ;  the  man 
goes.  Stand  by  the  land,  then.  Now,  don't  thee  go 
away,  Lance." 

Lancelot  shook  his  head  and  rose  from  the  table.  He 
could  not  continue  a  conversation  so  painful.  He  went 
back  to  his  father's  room,  and  looked  again  at  the  still 
figure.  His  mother  had  washed  and  straightened  him. 

A  fine  linen  winding-sheet  smelling  of  lavender  was 
around  him.  His  large  hands  were  clasped  across  his 
breast.  His  face  was  full  of  peace;  his  thick  brown 
hair  had  not  a  strand  of  gray,  and  it  curled  thickly  all 
over  the  grandly  domed  head.  The  wind  that  came  out 


THE  HOUSE  OF  DEATH.  115 

of  the  garden  and  from  off  the  wolds  stirred  it  gently 
upon  the  sunken  temples.  The  room  was  as  sweet  and 
white  as  if  it  was  a  bride-  and  not  a  death-chamber. 

Lancelot  held  a  long  session  in  it.  There  he  faced 
the  inevitable  results  of  his  mother's  crime.  Whether 
she  was  morally  responsible  or  not  for  it,  the  world 
would  hardly  take  time  to  inquire.  Its  verdict  would 
be  sharp  and  swift,  and  it  was  as  likely  as  not  that,  in 
some  moment  of  irritation,  she  would  dare  its  utmost. 
To  bring  Francesca  into  relationship  with  such  sorrow 
and  shame  would  be  wicked  and  cruel ;  dishonorable  to 
do  it  without  the  full  knowledge  and  consent  of  the 
squire ;  chimerical  to  hope  that  his  consent  would  ever 
be  given.  He  was  also  sure  that  he  had  no  right  to  be 
his  mother's  accuser ;  sure  that  his  good  father,  if  he 
was  alive,  would  plead  for  her,  excuse  her,  and  depre- 
cate her  suffering.  It  seemed  best  then,  on  every  side, 
to  go  away  and  to  leave  to  omniscient  love  and  wisdom 
the  unraveling  of  a  destiny  so  cruelly  tangled. 

He  then  wrote  to  Francesca,  and  sent  her  the  little 
love-song  that  was  associated  with  the  happiest  hours  of 
his  life.  He  told  her  of  his  father's  death,  and  his  own 
sorrow  in  losing  so  sweet  and  strong  a  friend.  He  could 
not  bear  just  yet  to  cut  the  tie  between  them.  When 
he  was  at  sea  he  would  take  time  to  consider ;  or  at  any 
rate  he  would  wait  until  he  was  on  the  point  of  leaving 
England ;  and  he  wrote  so  truly,  with  all  his  heart : 

"My  Beloved:  The  space  between  us  is  full  of  my  longing  and 
heartache.  It  will  be  so,  even  when  I  am  in  Mexico.  Oh,  to 
kiss  your  foot -prints!  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  robe!  to  feel  the 
perfume  of  your  presence!  the  magic  of  your  beauty!  the  glory 
of  your  smiles  and  glances !  Francesca!  Francesca!  Angel  of 


116  LOl'E   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

my  hopes  and  dreams !  Send  me  one  loving  thought  each  hour, 
for,  if  you  do  not,  I  shall  perish  miserably  for  want  of  it.  Adora- 
ble Francesca!  Live  in  happiness  and  sweetest  peace. 

"  LANCELOT." 

And  the  words  were  realities.  Their  greatest  reality 
was  in  their  extravagance ;  their  only  untruthfulness  in 
their  poverty.  Lovers  will  understand.  Those  who 
have  never  loved  lack  the  special  intelligence — let 
them  pray  God  for  the  divine  interpreter. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LOVE'S      DESPAIR. 

Yes,  it  was  love — if  thoughts  of  tenderness 
Tried  in  temptation,  strengthened  by  distress,. 
Unmoved  by  absence,  firm  in  every  clime, 
And  yet — oh,  more  than  all! — untired  by  time, 
Which  nor  defeated  hope  nor  baffled  wile 
Could  render  sullen. — Byron. 

So  writhes  the  mind  Remorse  hath  riven ; 
Around  it,  flame ;  within  it,  death. — Byron. 

THERE  was  a  sweet  credulousness  about  Miss  Loida 
which  was  one  of  her  greatest  charms.  She  found 
it  so  easy  to  believe  in  good,  to  hope  for  good,  and  when 
disappointed,  to  begin  hoping  again.  For  ten  years  she 
had  lived,  not  unhappily,  in  such  hope  and  disappoint- 
ment, and  then  renewed  hope.  She  knew  nothing  of 
that  fatal  malady — the  incapacity  to  be  happy.  It  is 
true  she  had  loved  and  she  had  suffered,  and  there  had 
been  hours  in  which  she  had  felt  nigh  unto  despair. 
But  she  had  never  been  despondent ;  and  there  is  this 
blessed  difference  between  the  two  conditions:  In  de- 
spair there  is  life  and  activity,  an  infinite  in  an  infinite 
sorrow ;  but  despondency  is  only  a  fatal,  somber  dream 
on  which  the  soul  feeds  secretly — a  lotus  leaf  of  languid, 
inert  grief,  not  far  from  annihilation. 

Every  year  about  the  autumn  Loida  went  on  a  short 
journey.     She  was  never  more  than  two  or  three  days 


Il8  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

away,  and  yet  it  was  an  affair  of  great  importance  to 
her,  and  she  pleasantly  occupied  many  days  in  her  prep- 
arations. No  one  spoke  to  her  concerning  it ;  the 
squire  understood  its  object,  and  had  long  ago  ceased 
to  interfere ;  and  Francesca,  who  had  no  restraints  or 
reservations  with  her  aunt  on  other  subjects,  felt  a  singu- 
lar reluctance  to  question  her  on  this  one. 

On  a  bright  sunny  morning  in  August  Miss  Vyner 
came  down  ready  for  her  journey.  The  squire  served 
her  with  kind  empressement,  and  Francesca  hovered 
around  her  with  thoughtful  care.  They  put  her  into  the 
carriage  with  many  kind  words  and  wishes,  but  without 
a  single  message  or  question.  And  neither  father  nor 
daughter  made  a  remark  to  each  other  about  the  strange, 
lonely  excursion.  Francesca  understood  there  was  some 
secret  she  ought  to  respect.  The  squire  had  too  noble 
a  nature  to  discuss  circumstances  sacredly  personal  to 
another. 

Through  a  very  thinly  populated  country  Loida  rode 
swiftly  until  the  noon-hour.  Then  she  came  to  a  way, 
side  inn,  where  she  changed  horses  and  took  some  re* 
freshment.  Afterward,  her  journey  was  among  high 
hills  and  across  desolate  moors  until  toward  sunset,  when 
she  approached  a  small  town.  It  stood  in  the  midst  of 
an  agricultural  district ;  a  strange  old  place,  quiet  as  a 
dream.  Its  mortared  houses  were  roofed  with  red  tiles, 
and  each  one,  even  on  the  main  street,  was  set  in  its  own 
pretty  garden.  The  bells  of  the  ancient  church  were 
ringing  for  evening  prayers  as  she  passed  slowly  through 
the  town  and  entered  the  gates  of  an  inclosed  place. 
There  was  a  heavy  mist  among  the  timber,  and  no  sign 
nor  sound  of  life  but  the  querulous  inquiries  of  the  rooks. 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  119 

A  short  drive  brought  her  in  sight  of  a  large  white 
house.  There  was  a  glimmer  of  light  in  one  of  the 
lower  windows,  and  as  she  approached,  an  old  man 
wearing  knee-breeches  made  of  corduroy,  and  a  mole- 
skin vest,  came  to  meet  the  carriage. 

"  Mistress  has  been  looking  for  you,"  he  said.  "  Go 
your  ways  in,  miss.  You  are  varry  welcome,  I'll  war- 
rant." 

She  went  in  as  if  she  knew  the  house  well,  through  a 
long,  flagged  passage  to  a  parlor  at  the  end  of  it.  An 
old  lady  was  sitting  at  a  small  table  drinking  tea.  She 
had  a  large  cat  on  her  knee,  one  of  the  real  brown  tor- 
toise-shell that,  as  a  pure  breed,  are  now  nearly  extinct. 
She  was  talking  to  it  as  Loida  entered,  and  she  kept 
it  in  her  arms  as  she  rose  with  evident  delight  to  wel- 
come her. 

"  My  dear,"  she  cried  cheerfully,  "  you  are  better  than 
sunshine !  I  have  been  expecting  you  for  a  week.  I 
had  given  you  up  for  to-day." 

"We  were  detained  at  least  an  hour.  One  of  the 
horses  I  got  at  Redmond's  Inn  was  a  poor  one ;  but 
here  I  am  at  last." 

"And  freely  welcome.  Will  you  go  to  your  room  at 
once  ? " 

"  Yes,  at  once." 

"You  know  the  way,  dear.  Nothing  changes.  I 
try  to  keep  everything  the  same." 

Nothing  had  changed  for  at  least  ten  years.  Loida 
could  have  gone  through  the  house  with  her  eyes  shut. 
She  knew  the  lofty  room  to  which  she  went  as  she  knew 
her  alphabet;  knew  its  large,  carved  bedstead,  with 
snowy  trappings  of  Marseilles  and  ruffled  lawn,  and 


120  LOVE  FOP  AN  HOUR. 

hangings  of  rich,  gold-colored  brocade.  She  knew  its 
polished  floor,  so  difficult  for  her  to  walk  on,  its  fine 
dressing-table  and  sets  of  drawers  and  ancient  oak  dower 
chests,  its  Wedgwood  ewers  and  basins,  its  prayer-table 
with  the  open  Bible,  and  the  scent  of  roses  everywhere — 
how  well  she  knew  the  room! 

She  stood  before  the  large  mirror  and  looked  earnestly 
at  herself.  Though  there  was  only  one  old  lady  to  see 
her,  she  was  very  anxious  to  appear  handsome.  She 
had  dressed  with  great  care  in  rich  and  becoming  gar- 
ments, and  her  habits  were  so  quiet  and  reposeful  that 
her  journey  had  scarce  ruffled  her  attire.  She  bathed 
her  face  and  brushed  out  the  long,  soft  curls  of  her 
brown  hair,  and  put  fresh  lace  at  her  throat,  and  then 
she  smiled  back  at  the  lovely  woman  the  glass  showed 
her. 

The  consciousness  of  her  beauty  and  grace  gave  her 
an  air  of  distinction,  and  she  went  downstairs  feeling 
that  she  was  in  a  position  to  give  and  to  receive  pleasure. 
Some  additions  had  been  made  to  the  tea-table  ;  richer 
viands,  more  beautiful  china,  and  some  napkins  of  dam- 
ask  as  fine  as  satin.  The  two  women  sat  down  at  the 
table  opposite  to  each  other,  and  they  made  a  very  strik- 
ing picture — the  pretty  old  woman  with  the  charm  of 
life's  afterglow  over  her  gray,  quiet  head  and  pale,  strong 
face — the  pretty  young  woman  in  the  full  charm  of  her 
thirty  years,  flowing,  graceful,  high-bred,  with  eyes  as 
clear  as  truth,  and  a  face  lovely  as  a  perfect  rose  in 
the  twilight ;  for  roses  then  are  soft  and  tender  with  the 
dew  and  mist,  and  drooping  a  little,  as  if  hiding  some 
sweet,  sorrowful  story. 

At  the  first  glance  the  elder  woman's  eyes  looked  dull 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  121 

and  soft  and  full  of  uncomplaining  patience,  but  as  soon 
as  she  began  to  talk  her  resolute  soul  filled  them  with 
fire  and  light. 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,"  she  said — "  nothing  at  all, 
Loida,  for  nine  months.  If  I  had  I  should  have  written 
you." 

"  Silence  is  so  cruel,  mother." 

"  It  is,  my  dear.  If  the  dead  could  only  speak  or 
write  it  wouldn't  be  so  hard,  now,  would  it  ?  Why  don't 
they  ?  If  they  live  anywhere,  why  don't  they  speak  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  Richard  is  not  dead.     If  he  were  dead 

* 

I  should  know  it.     I  think  he  may  be  on  his  way  home." 

"Eh,  my  dear!  What  a  thing  it  is  to  have  hope 
always  near  you.  Will  I  ever  see  Dick  again,  Loida?" 

"  I  am  sure  you  will,  mother.  I  think  he  is  coming 
very  soon.  He  might  come  to-night  as  we  sit  talking 
of  him." 

"  Nay,  nay,  Loida.  Such  a  surprise  as  that  would  be 
could  only  happen  in  Pen-and-ink  Land.  The  son 
doesn't  come  home,  and  the  lover  doesn't  come  back 
that  kind  of  way,  except  between  book-covers.  Never 
the  bright  hour,  and  the  happy  circumstance,  and  the7 
loved  one  all  together." 

"  Oh,  dear  mother,  when  Dick  comes  back  he  will 
make  the  right  hour  and  the  happy  circumstance,  and 
then  all  three  will  be  together!" 

"  God  bless  you,  Loida!" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  having  hard  times, 
mother.  I  never  knew  you  despond  before." 

"  I  have  been  having  things  a  bit  crooked,  my  dear. 
Every  which  way  has  been  contrary.  It  has  been  a 
bad  year.  Some  valuable  cattle  died  in  the  spring  and 


122  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

had  to  be  replaced.  And  the  two  Swale  children  came 
of  age  this  year,  and  their  money  was  to  raise.  It  was 
more  than  a  thousand  pounds.  I  had  to  sell  two 
meadows  and  a  fine  mare  to  get  enough.  But  then, 
what  is  land  to  Dick's  honor  ? " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  mother.     Let  the  land  go." 

"  And  the  house,  too,  if  it  be  necessary.     Eh,  Loida  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  mother.  Dick's  good  name  is  before 
everything.  How  about  the  interest  ?  " 

"  I  shall  pull  through  this  year.  But  oh,  Loida,  if  he 
never  comes  home  again ! " 

"  He  will  come.  It  is  impossible  such  love  and  self- 
denial  will  be  made  vain  by  death.  Dick  is  sure  to 
come.  I  have  brought  a  trifle  to  help  the  interest  ac- 
count. I  wish  I  was  richer.  I  can  do  so  little,  mother." 

"  It  is  hard  for  you  to  scrimp  yourself,  only  for  Dick's 
good  name." 

"  I  hope  Dick's  good  name  is  my  good  name.  It  is 
a  great  happiness  to  me  that  you  take  so  frankly  what  I 
can  do.  Mother,  I  have  only  one  fear,  one  great  fear, 
about  Dick  coming  home.  What  if  he  has  forgotten 
me !  What  if  he  loves  some  one  else !  What  if  he — " 

"  Nay,  nay,  Loida,  you  know  different.  Dick  has 
but  one  hope  and  thought,  that  is  to  put  himself  right 
for  your  sake.  Every  letter  I  have  is  set  to  this  tune. 
My  dear,  he  would  be  such  a  scoundrel  as  never  was 
heard  tell  of  if  he  could  forget  you  or  put  any  other 
woman  before  you." 

"  It  is  ten  years  since — women  change  so  much  in  ten 
years." 

"  You  have  grown  lovelier  every  year,  Loida.  When 
Dick  went  away,  you  were  nothing  but  a  slip  of  a  girl. 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR,  12$ 

You  were  only  a  rose  shut  up  in  green  leaves.  You 
were  just  the  possible  glory  of  the  woman  you  have 
grown  to  be.  The  bud  in  the  green  case  has  become 
the  perfect  rose,  and,  my  dear,  there  is  no  naming  the 
bud  and  flower  together.  Nobody  would  care  for  a  rose- 
tree  if  they  didn't  know  the  buds  would  grow  to  flowers. 
I  have  told  Dick  in  every  letter  I  could  send  him  what 
a  beauty  you  had  become.  If  Dick  could  forget  you, 
I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  forget  Dick." 

"  It  is  only  a  passing  fear,  mother.  Dick  is  too  fine 
a  fellow  to  be  false." 

"  Yet  you  know,  Loida,  that  many  people  once  said 
hard  things  of  Dick.  He  partly  deserved  them,  too ;  I, 
his  mother,  say  that." 

"  Dick  made  a  great  mistake.  He  is  doing  his  best 
to  put  the  wrong  right.  He  has  put  much  of  it  right. 
When  he  pays  the  uttermost  farthing,  what  else  can  be 
required  of  him?  And  Dick  has  suffered,  also.  We 
must  think  of  that." 

All  that  night  till  very  late,  and  all  the  next  day,  the 
two  women  talked  of  Dick.  In  the  sweet  old  sunny 
garden  they  talked  of  him,  and  recalled  a  thousand 
things  he  had  done  and  said  among  its  fruits  and 
flowers.  In  every  fair,  old-fashioned  room  of  the  house 
they  talked  of  him.  Every  room  was  full  of  Dick. 
Through  ten  years  of  absolute  absence  his  personality 
retained  a  hold  on  each.  His  picture  at  various  ages 
hung  throughout  the  house.  In  one  room  Baby  Dick 
smiled  and  held  his  toes,  and  his  mother  stood  before  it 
with  her  mother-soul  in  her  face. "  In  another  there  was 
Dick  as  a  school-boy.  In  another  he  looked  uncom- 
fortably conscious  in  his  academical  gown  and  square 


124  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

cap.  There  was  a  full-length  painting  in  oils  of  Dick  at 
his  majority  in  the  drawing-room.  There  was  one  in 
the  library  of  "  Captain  Richard  Alderson  "  in  the  glory 
of  a  militia  uniform.  Dick  in  cricketing  suits  and  yacht- 
ing suits ;  Dick  masquerading  as  Romeo ;  Dick  on  his 
favorite  hunter ;  Dick  in  every  picturable  situation  was 
present. 

"  They  are  all  a  great  comfort  to  me,"  the  mother 
said.  "  When  I  get  a  fear  about  him,  I  walk  through 
the  rooms  and  look  at  them  all.  There  are  so  many 
Dicks  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  one  of  them  must  surely 
come  back." 

"  The  very  best  of  Dicks  will  come  back.  Dear  me, 
mother,  what  a  day  it  will  be!  He  is  sure  to  come  here 
first  of  all.  You  will  send  a  man  to  tell  me.  Don't 
trust  to  the  post.  We  are  so  out  of  the  way  it  might  be 
days  before  I  got  the  letter." 

"  I  will  send  the  very  hour  Dick  comes.  Toby  will 
do  the  distance  on  Sylvia's  back  in  six  hours." 

"  I  shall  listen,  then,  for  the  beat  of  Sylvia's  feet. 
And  whenever  I  hear  a  galloping  horse,  I  shall  be  sure 
it  is  Sylvia.  O  mother!  mother!  What  if  Toby  was  to 
send  in  a  month — in  a  week — the  very  day  after  I  leave 
you.  Don't  you  feel  as  if  Dick  was  nearly  here  ?  I  do." 

"  Sixty-five  cannot  feel  as  thirty  does." 

"  Would  you  wish  it  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  would,  just  for  Dick's  home-coming.  For  an 
hour  I  would  like  to  feel  as  I  did  when  I  was  thirty — 
feel  in  every  nerve  and  pulse.  Yes,  I  would,  though  I 
used  up  ten  years  of  life  in  that  hour." 

"  Will  he  not  be  astonished  when  he  comes  back  and 
finds  out  all  you  have  done  ? " 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  12$ 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  he  will.  He  would  know  it  in 
his  heart.  Dick  knows  his  mother  so  well.  He  would 
be  sure  I  would  do  the  topmost  thing  possible.  But  I'll 
tell  you  what,  Loida.  He  will  be  astonished  and  de- 
lighted to  find  out  how  much  you  have  helped  me — 
scrimping  yourself  for  his  sake.  My  word!  I  think 
when  I  tell  him  all  you  have  done,  he  will  find  out  tears 
he  never  had  before ;  he  will  find  out  deep  places  in  his 
heart  he  would  not  ever  have  found  out  in  any  other 
way." 

"I  see  his  dog  is  still  about ;  and  won't  he  be 
astonished  to  find  Tabby  still  purring  on  his  chair- 
cushion  ?  " 

"Tabby  does  not  purr  much  now.  She  has  not 
purred  much  since  Dick  went.  Really,  when  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  I  do  not  think  she  has  ever  considered  any- 
thing worth  purring  about  since.  And  as  for  Chief! 
Chief  is  always  watching.  The  look  of  inquiry  in  his 
big  brown  eyes  is  more  than  I  can  bear  sometimes.  It 
says  to  me  so  plainly :  '  When  will  Dick  come  home  ? ' " 

This  one  day  every  year  was  the  heart  holiday  of 
Mrs.  Alderson  and  of  Loida  Vyner.  Whatever  they 
might  have  to  do  other  days,  this  one  was  Dick's,  and 
Dick's  only.  They  filled  it  with  recollections  of  him 
and  with  hopes  for  him.  It  was  the  heart-food  on  which 
they  both  lived  many  other  days.  It  went  all  too  quickly 
away.  And  in  spite  of  Loida's  charming  anticipations, 
no  glad  surprise  came  to  them  in  it ;  not  even  a  white- 
winged  letter  of  hope.  They  parted  as  they  had  met, 
in  the  visible  presence  of  a  sad  certainty,  in  the  passion- 
ately expressed  glamour  of  a  future  hope. 

Loida's  heart  fell  as  soon  as  she  left  Alderson  Bars. 


126  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

It  grew  heavier  with  every  lonely  mile.  She  had  spent 
her  stock  of  hope  so  lavishly,  she  had  none  now  left 
for  her  own  necessity.  Her  thoughts  wandered  far, 
and  yet  brought  nothing  back  but  that  truly  English 
word  "  Why?  "  Why  had  Dick  done  so  wrong  ?  Why 
did  he  not  come  ?  Why  did  he  not  write  ?  The  little 
plaintive  questioning  word,  almost  poetical  in  itself,  grew 
tragic  in  its  persistent  iteration. 

It  was  after  sunset  when  she  reached  Atherton,  and 
that  twilight  dejection,  which  even  animals  feel,  had  in- 
tensified the  melancholy  of  her  mood.  She  had  ceased 
even  to  expect  the  "improbable  letter"  of  the  future. 
But  oh,  how  soon  all  shadows  fled  before  the  light  in 
Francesca's  face,  and  the  hearty  welcome  in  the  squire's 
greeting!  How  many  good  things  were  yet  left  her! 
How  much  love!  What  a  happy  home!  Her  coming 
to  it  made  an  air  of  rejoicing  through  the  house.  Tea 
had  been  delayed  that  they  might  take  it  with  her. 

She  threw  off  her  sense  of  trouble  and  disappointment 
by  a  conscious  effort,  as  she  threw  off  her  cloak  and 
bonnet,  and  then  turned  with  smiles  to  her  brother  and 
niece.  Something  strange  and  unlocked  for  had  hap- 
pened ;  «he  saw  a  shadow  of  it  about  the  squire.  She 
perceived  it  in  the  face  and  manner  of  Francesca.  But 
they  talked  for  a  little  while  on  the  most  commonplace 
and  indifferent  of  things — the  weather,  the  crops  in  that 
part  of  the  country  through  which  Loida  had  passed, 
the  poor  horse  Hedmond  had  given  her,  the  catching  of 
a  fox  in  Atherton  hen-coops,  finally  the  condition  of 
Atherton  village. 

"  It  is  bad  enough,"  said  the  squire.  "  I  am  veiy 
sorry  for  poor  Lance.  When  trouble  comes,  it  comes 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  127 

every  way  at  once,  I  think.  Francesca  tells  me 
Lance's  father  is  dead.  I  am  very  sorry! " 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Francesca,  answering  her  aunt's 
look  of  sorrowful  amazement.  "  Lance's  last  letter 
said  his  father  was  very  ill ;  but  his  death  must  have 
been  unexpected,  I  think.  Lance  writes  like  a  man 
distracted." 

"  He  was  particularly  fond  of  his  father,"  said  Loida, 
"  I  never  saw  a  father  and  son  so  much  one." 

"  I  liked  that,"  answered  the  squire  warmly.  "  I 
liked  the  way  in  which  Lance  stood  by  his  father's  ad- 
vice and  word.  And  I  am  sure  Stephen  Leigh  was  a 
fine  man.  I  am  sorry  I  quarreled  with  him.  It  hurts 
me  to  think  I  was  speaking  badly  of  him  yesterday, 
and  him  not  on  earth  to  answer  me  back.  My  word! 
It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  talk  badly  of  the  absent. 
You  never  know  whether  they  may  not  be  closer  to 
God  than  you  are." 

They  talked  all  evening  of  this  subject,  but  no  one 
named  it  as  it  mainly  appealed  to  Francesca.  Her 
first  reflection  had  been :  "  Now  Lance  cannot  go 
away  from  England.  There  will  be  Garsby  Mill  and 
Leigh  Farm  and  his  mother  to  look  after."  But  she 
gave  no  utterance  to  her  thought,  for  it  seemed  selfish 
and  unfeeling. 

Neither  did  the  squire  speak  of  any  change  in 
Lance's  prospects ;  perhaps  he,  also,  considered  it 
would  be  unfeeling;  or  perhaps  he  did  not  speak 
of  such  a  result  because  he  did  not  wish  it.  At 
any  rate,  it  was  not  alluded  to ;  but  Francesca  kept 
the  possibility  as  a  new  hope  in  her  heart.  Yet  she 
felt  hurt  and  offended  that  no  one  had  foreseen  sucL  a 


128  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

change,  and  given  her  the  comfort  of  discussing  it. 
Under  the  circumstances  silence  seemed  almost  active 
ill-will  against  her  lover. 

The  next  morning  the  squire  announced  his  intention 
of  going  to  Stephen  Leigh's  funeral. 

"  I  can  stay  with  my  friend  Thomas  Idle,"  he  said. 
"  No  doubt  he  will  be  going  to  Leigh,  and  I  think  it  is 
t>nly  right  I  should  go,  too — for  Lancelot's  sake.  Nay, 
then,  I'll  not  put  Lancelot's  cloak  over  my  doings.  I'll 
go  because  I  think  well  of  Stephen  Leigh.  It  was  only 
as  the  mill-owner  and  spinner  I  didn't  like  him.  He  was 
as  honest  and  straightforward  a  gentleman  as  ever  lived." 

Thus  it  is  that  death  opens  the  eyes  of  the  living, 
and  permits  excellencies  to  be  seen  not  acknowledged 
before  its  revealing  touch. 

So  that  day  Squire  Atherton  went  to  Idleholme, 
from  which  place  he  sent  a  message  of  sympathy  to 
Lancelot.  But  he  did  not  go  to  Leigh  Farm  until  the 
•day  of  the  funeral — a  soft,  misty,  warm  day,  full  of  a 
Still  melancholy.  There  was  a  great  company  present, 
and  the  little  graveyard  on  the  windy  wold  was  crowded 
with  middle-aged  gentlemen,  squires,  and  spinners,  who 
had  been  Stephen  Leigh's  friends  and  acquaintances — 
tall,  handsome  men  mostly ;  full  of  a  splendid  vitality, 
subdued  and  solemnized  by  the  shadow  of  death  and 
the  thrilling  words  of  the  white-surpliced  priest  at  tl:^ 
open  grave. 

The  service  over,  the  crowd  dispersed  very  silent!}'. 
The  majority  were  on  their  own  hunters,  and  they  rode 
through  the  green  lanes  bordered  with  ripe  wheat  in 
a  silent,  thoughtful  mood.  They  had  to  pass  Leigh 
Farm,  and  Squire  Atherton  stopped  there.  He  really 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  1 29 

felt  as  if  he  ought  to  give  Lancelot  some  personal 
sympathy,  and  also  find  out  how  so  unlooked-for  a 
calamity  would  affect  his  future  movements. 

The  place  appeared  to  be  deserted.  No  one  came 
to  take  his  horse,  and  he  led  it  to 'the  nearest  stable. 
Then  he  entered  the  house  by  an  open  door.  He 
could  hear  footsteps  in  the  room  above,  but  there  was 
not  a  sound  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house  except  the 
humming  of  the  bumble-bees  flying  in  and  out  of  the 
open  windows.  He  saw  the  dead  man's  empty  chair 
on  the  hearthstone.  His  pipe  was  across  the  rack  in 
the  chimney-corner,  his  tobacco-jar  and  almanac  lay  on 
a  little  shelf  beside  it.  The  senseless  objects  had  an 
uncomfortable  and  pathetic  eloquence.  He  disliked  a 
solitude  so  full  of  voices,  and  he  touched  a  hand-bell 
upon  the  sideboard  very  sharply. 

The  resonant  call  was  answered  by  a  heavy  footstep 
upon  the  stairs.  It  came  toward  him  with  a  slow,  fate- 
ful sound — a  sound  full  of  unhappy  presentiment.  He 
had  a  moment's  irresolution  about  remaining  to  answer 
his  own  call,  but  as  he  hesitated  Martha  Leigh  opened 
the  door  and  came  into  the  room. 

He  was  shocked  by  her  gray,  stony  face,  and  dark, 
glowing  eyes.  Her  stare  of  inquiry  frightened  him. 
But  he  understood  at  once  that  it  was  the  widow,  and 
he  respected  a  grief  so  evident  and  so  awful. 

"  Mrs.  Leigh,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  am  Squire  Ather- 
ton.  I  called  to  see  Lancelot." 

"  He  hasn't  come  from  the  funeral  yet." 

"  He  will  be  here  soon,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  I  can't  tell  thee.  He  was  feeling  badly,  and  spoke 
of  going  to  see  Dr.  Thorpe." 


130  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  your  affliction,  madam." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  thou  should  be." 

"  I  supposed  you  were  aware  that  your  son  Lance- 
lot—" 

Then  the  squire  stopped;  he  had  a  sudden  dislike 
to  naming  his  daughter. 

"  I  know  that  Lance  hes  thought  hissen  in  love  with 
Miss  Atherton,  but  as  for  wedding  with  her — " 

"  Madam,  the  days  of  death  and  burial  are  not  for 
the  discussion  of  love  and  marriage.  That  subject  can 
wait  its  season." 

"  I  was  going  to  say  a  few  words  that  wiil  suit  all 
seasons — going  to  say  that  there  is  now  a  reason  why 
my  son  can  never  marry  Miss  Atherton.  He  knows! 
He  knows!  Find  another  husband  for  thy  lass,  squire. 
She  can  never  wed  my  Lance.  If  ta  knew  all  Lance 
knows,  thou  would  put  her  in  her  winding-sheet  before 
thou  would  see  her  don  wedding-clothes  to  be  his 
wife." 

She  stood  with  one  hand  upon  tke  large  center-table, 
looking  straight  into  the  squire's  face,  and  she  spoke 
with  a  still  passion  that  was  terrible.  A  suspicion  that 
she  was  "not  herself"  was  forced  upon  the  squire. 
He  answered  her  accordingly  with  some  indifferent 
words,  which  he  meant  to  be  soothing  and  conciliating. 
She  listened  to  them  with  scornful  temper,  and 
answered  promptly: 

"Thou  needn't  think  I  am  out  of  my  senses.  I 
niver  had  better  hold  of  them  all.  I  know  right  well 
that  thou  niver  wanted  Lance  in  thy  family.  I  don't 
blame  thee.  I  don't  want  thy  fine  daughter  among  the 
Leighs.  Well,  then,  thou  can  go  thy  ways  home  with 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  131 

a  light  heart.  Thou  hated  Stephen  Leigh,  and  thou 
hes  hed  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  put  under  clay ;  and 
thou  hated  the  thought  of  Lance  Leigh  coming  courting 
Miss  Francesco,.  Now  I  tell  thee  he  niver  can  do  so 
any  more." 

"  You  ought  to  give  me  some  reason  for  your  asser- 
tions, Mrs.  Leigh." 

"Ask  me  no  questions.  I  shall  mebbe  tell  thee  ties 
if  ta  does.  Lance  knows  'why.'  But  Lance  will  niver 
tell  thee.  Niver!  Get  thee  home,  now.  What  does  ta 
come  here  for,  anyway  ?  If  I  was  only  thy  match  in 
size  and  strength,  I'd  know  'why.'  What  does  ta 
come  here  for?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  such  hatred  and  passion 
the  squire  was  really  terrified.  He  was  sure  now  that 
the  woman  was  insane,  and  his  anger  turned  to  pity. 
He  regarded  the  tall,  comely  widow,  stricken  with  so 
sad  and  lonely  a  visitation,  as  something  sacred.  She 
had  felt  the  finger  of  God,  and  had  not  been  able  to 
mentally  survive  that  mighty  touch.  Instead  of  answer- 
ing her  question,  he  bowed  slightly,  and  made  as  if  he 
would  leave  the  room. 

She  watched  his  movements  with  satisfaction.  She 
went  before  him  to  the  door  and  held  it  open. 

"  Don't  thee  come  here  any  more,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  nothing  to  do  with*  thee,  nor  with  any  one  belong- 
ing to  thee.  I  hev  seen  thy  daughter.  She  is  none  of 
our  kind.  And  I'll  dare  Lance  to  talk  of  wedding  her. 
Make  thysen  easy  on  that  score.  He'll  niver  do  it  now. 
Niver!" 

"  Madam,  your  misfortune  insures  my  sympathy  and 
respect.  Good-afternoon." 


132  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

"  When  I  ask  thee  for  sympathy  or  respect,  then  thou 
can  give  them  to  me.  And  my  misfortune,  as  ta  calls 
it,  is  mine,  and  I  can  bear  it  without  thy  help.  Go  thy 
ways,  and  a  '  good-afternoon '  to  thee,  if  ta  calls  this 
one." 

Never  in  all  his  life  had  Squire  Atherton  been  treated 
with  such  painful  freedom.  Anger  and  pity  strove  to- 
gether in  his  heart,  but  anger  was  doubtless  the  most 
lasting  of  the  two  feelings.  He  was  muttering  his  an- 
noyance and  offense  all  the  time  he  unfastened  his  horse, 
and  he  rode  away  from  Leigh  Farm  full  of  wrath  and 
indignant  protest. 

"Just  what  I  deserve!  Just  what  I  deserve!  Why 
did  I  trouble  myself  about  Stephen  Leigh?  I  have 
always  had  annoyance,  and  nothing  but  annoyance,  with 
him  and  with  his.  It  is  enough  to  make  a  man  vow 
never  to  do  a  kind  thing  again.  I  came  with  a  pitiful 
heart,  and  that  n  .woman  told  me  I  came  for  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Stephen  Leigh  put  under  clay.  My 
word!  It  is  hard  to  do  right.  Dal  it!  I  have  let  my 
soft  heart  lead  me  on  a  fool's  errand.  But  thanks  be ! 
I'm  not  bound  to  go  that  road  again.  And  as  for  my 
little  lass — God  love  her! — I  will  see  her  in  her  winding- 
sheet  ere  I'll  let  her  take  a  husband  out  of  such  a  railing 
nest." 

Burning  with  chagrin  and  a  sense  of  injury,  he  pur- 
sued his  way.  On  the  moor  he  met  Lancelot.  He 
was  quite  alone  and  riding  very  slowly,  with  his  head 
bent  and  reins  dropped  loosely  down.  He  looked  com- 
pletely worn  out  and  exceedingly  sorrowful.  As  the 
squire  drew  near,  Lancelot  recognized  him ;  and  he 
stopped  his  horse  altogether.  But  in  spite  of  a  certain 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  133 

pity  for  the  youth,  the  squire  was  intensely  angry.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  stop,  but  touching  his  hat  in  pass- 
ing, went  rapidly  onward ;  apparently  indifferent  to  the 
lonely  figure  gazing  after  him,  with  eyes  dilating  with 
wonder  and  wounded  feeling. 

Lancelot  had  a  letter  from  Francesca  over  his  heart, 
which  he  had  just  received.  It  was  full  of  tender  love 
and  sympathy.  It  spoke  of  her  father's  sorrow  and  of 
the  genuine  respect  which  had  moved  him  to  attend  the 
funeral.  What,  then,  did  that  formal  recognition  mean  ? 
It  was  such  a  greeting  as  might  have  been  given  to  the 
most  indifferent  stranger.  Lancelot  felt  the  sting  and 
humiliation  of  this  worry,  even  in  the  deep  sorrow  and 
the  awful  doubts  that  gathered  like  thick  clouds  across 
his  hopes  and  his  love. 

His  mother  met  him  with  a  strange  timidity.  She 
was  not  aware  of  it,  indeed ;  she  was  nursing  purposes 
in  her  heart  which  were  at  total  variance  with  the  feel- 
ing. But  when  Lancelot  entered  the  parlor,  she  looked 
stealthily  at  him.  His  miserable  face  and  his  silent, 
restrained  manner  troubled  and  yet  irritated  her.  For 
his  sake  and  his  interests  she  had  robbed  herself  of  love 
and  love's  companionship,  and  bespoke  life-long  sor- 
row and  remorse.  Right  or  wrong,  she  felt  that  her 
self-denial  ought  to  be  recognized  and  appreciated. 
For  she  reasoned  only  from  her  own  standpoint,  and 
quite  forgot  that  Lancelot,  both  by  nature  and  educa- 
tion, was  not  only  incapable  of  reasoning  with  her,  but 
was  firmly  convinced  on  views  taken  from  an  entirely 
different  standpoint. 

She  motioned  to  his  father's  chair  and  drew  it  toward 
the  table,  on  which  a  frugal  meal  was  laid.  Lancelot 


134  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

shrank  with  visible  pain  from  the  empty  seat.  With 
gentle  hands  he  lifted  the  chair  back  to  its  place.  Tears 
dropped  upon  the  cushion,  and  oh,  what  bitter-sweet 
memories  crowded  around  that  old  empty  chair! 

Martha  Leigh  watched  him  with  gathering  anger. 

"Take  the  chair,"  she  said  in  a  shrill  voice,  full  of 
stifled  feeling — "  take  thy  father's  chair ;  it  is  surely 
good  enough  for  thee  to  fill.  It  is  thine  now." 

"  It  is  not  mine." 

"  All  that  was  his  is  thine.     I  hev  said  that  before." 

"  Nothing  that  was  his  is  mine.  I  will  not  touch  a 
penny's  worth.  I  have  told  you  that  before." 

"  Hes  ta  lost  thy  senses  ?  " 

"  I  have  at  least  the  fullest  sense  of  my  duty  to  my 
father.  Father  went  away — or  was  sent  away — before 
his  time.  Whatever  was  his  is  still  his ;  not  mine." 

"  It  is  thine." 

"  I  swear  before  God  it  is  not  mine !  Nor  will  I 
touch  a  farthing  of  it,  nor  put  myself  in  his  place  for 
one  moment !  My  dear,  good  father,  who  never  wronged 
me  by  one  thought !  Shall  i  wrong  him  in  all  that  per- 
tained to  him — honor,  place,  land,  house,  and  money? 
May  God  slay  me  first!  I  should  well  deserve  it." 

"  Thou  art  an  ungrateful  son  ;  a  miserable  Leigh.  If 
ta  has  any  manhood  in  thee,  speak  plainly  to  me,  and 
not  in  snaffling  words  and  riddles." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  ask  you  some  plain  questions — 
answer  me  as  plainly:  Did  you  purposely  keep  back 
the  proper  medicines  from  father  ? " 

"  Ay,  I  did.  I  was  sorry  I  hed  to  do  so,  but  it  hed 
to  be  done." 

"  And  he  died  in  consequence  ?  " 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  135 

"  He  may,  and  he  may  not.  I  left  it  all  in  God's 
hands.  Surely  to  Heaven!  your  father  was  as  well 
there  as  in  old  Dr.  Thorpe's  hands." 

"  I  can  only  hope  that  you  were  and  are  insane, 
mother." 

"  Nay,  my  lad,  I  hev  all  my  senses.  I  am  as  sane, 
and  a  good  bit  saner,  than  either  thy  father  was  or  thou 
art.  My  word!  Any  Leigh  must  hev  been  stark  crazy 
who  was  standing,  pen  in  hand  as  one  may  say,  to  sign 
away  house  and  land.  And  that  is  what  thy  father 
would  hev  done,  hed  not  the  fever  put  a  stop  to  such 
wickedness.  I  hev  always  been  told  that  sickness  comes 
from  the  hand  of  God.  Well,  then,  I  left  thy  father  to 
the  will  of  Him  that  sent  the  fever.  I  didn't  interfere 
one  way  or  t'other.  God  hed  His  awn  will.  Does  ta 
think  old  Thorpe's  medicines  were  stronger  than  His 
will  ? " 

"  Mother,  such  reasoning  is  wicked.  You  know  you 
did  wrong." 

"  I  did  quite  right!  I'll  stand  to  that,  alive  of  dead! 
I  saved  house  and  land  for  thee.  Ay,  and  for  all  that 
follow  thee." 

"  I  will  have  neither  house  nor  land.  I  am  going 
away  from  England.  How  could  I  bear  to  stop  here  ?  " 

"  Thou  wilt  stop  here.  If  ta  goes  away,  whativer  is 
to  become  of  the  property  ?  " 

"  Do  as  you  wish  with  it.  If  the  dead  Leighs  are 
more  to  you  than  your  living  husband  and  son,  give 
them  the  house.  I  will  not  share  it  with  them." 

"  Thou  art  not  worthy  to  do  it." 

"And  if  I  stayed  here,  I  should  stay  to  carry  out 
father's  desire.  I  would  mortgage — I  would  sell  Leigh 


136  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR 

House  and  land  and  keep  the  mill  going,  for  that  would 
keep  a  thousand  families  in  bread." 

"My  word!  Thou  art  a  reprobate!  Out  of  my 
sight!  Out  of  my  hearing!  I'll  niver  own  thee  again! 
I  know  what  thou  is  after.  Thou  wants  to  be  lord 
and  master  at  Atherton  Court.  And  the  Leighs'  place 
may  fall  into  anybody's  or  nobody's  hands.  Thou  art 
a  wicked  one,  and  no  mistake." 

"  I  shall  never  now  ask  Miss  Atherton  to  come  into 
our  family.  How  could  I  ?  " 

"  Thou  hed  better  not.  I  told  her  father  an  hour 
ago  she  niver  could  marry  thee.  I  gave  the  proud  old 
fellow  a  set-down  he  won't  forget  in  a  hurry." 

"O  mother!  mother!  How  could  you  shame  me 
so?  You  have  broken  my  heart  twice  over!  How 
could  you  shame  me  so  ? " 

"  If  ta  can  do  nothing  but  cry,  go  to  thy  room.  I 
hev  my  awn  sorrow,  and  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  bear. 
Does  ta  think  I  hev  no  feelings  ?  Does  ta  think  that 
doing  Tny  duty  pays  me  for  all  I  hev  hed  to  give  up  ? 
I  tell  thee  there  is  a  worm  at  my  heart  and  a  fire  in  my 
brain,  and  they  will  worry  and  burn  me  into  my  grave 
before  they'll  stop  a  moment !  " 

She  swept  the  table  clear  with  passionate  haste  as 
she  spoke,  locked  the  doors,  and  taking  the  candle  off 
the  table,  went  upstairs.  Lancelot  remained  in  the  large, 
dark  sitting-room.  He  wondered  where  his  mother  would 
go.  She  went  straight  to  the  room  in  which  her  hus- 
band had  died.  She  had  occupied  it  all  her  married 
life  ;  she  was  evidently  not  going  to  resign  her  right  to 
it  because  Death  had  taken  her  place  there  for  a  little 
while.  Lancelot  heard  her  close  the  windows ;  he  heard 


LOVE'S  DESPAIR.  137 

her  heavy  footfalls,  her  movements  about  the  ambries 
and  drawers,  just  as  the  squire  had  heard  them  a  few 
hours  before.  She  had  been  preparing  the  chamber  for 
her  use  then ;  she  was  now  preparing  herself  to  lie  down 
in  it,  and  sleep  such  sleep  as  was  possible  to  her. 

Lancelot  sat  still  thinking.  However  hopeless  a  man 
may  be,  he  must  still  think  and  still  plan  ;  for  life,  some- 
how, must  be  got  over,  and  a  grave  fairly  and  honestly 
earned.  At  this  hour  all  else  had  vanished ;  hope  for 
better  days  seemed  hopeless.  He  could  not  bear  to 
contemplate  taking  one  penny  from  his  father's  estate. 
He  could  not  think  of  the  estate  as  belonging  in  any 
shape  to  him.  His  father's  unnatural  death,  whether  it 
was  known  to  others  or  not,  was  known  to  him.  He 
would  have  felt  base  beyond  contemplation  to  have 
profited  himself  in  any  way  by  it. 

But  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  He 
knew  that  Francesca  must  be  given  up.  He  compelled 
himself  to  face  this  terrible  fact.  His  mother  was  in- 
sane, or  she  was  in  full  intent  a —  He  could  not  say 
the  word;  he  tried  not  to  be  conscious  of  the  letters 
that  spelled  it,  but  they  would  come  before  his  eyes  as 
if  they  were  written  in  fire. 

How  could  he  tell  Squire  Atherton  the  real  facts? 
And  yet  how  shameful  it  would  be  to  continue  his 
engagement  with  his  daughter,  hiding  them!  How 
could  he  tell  them  to  Francesca  ?  It  would  be  impos- 
sible. Then  what  should  he  say  to  account  for  the 
silence  and  desertion  that  must  now  cancel  all  their 
sweet  hopes!  Every  explanation  he  thought  of  only 
made  things  worse ;  for  at  the  last  it  came  to  these  ques- 
tions : 


138  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  Can  I  accuse  my  mother  to  Francesca  ?  Can  I  ac- 
cuse her  to  Francesca's  father  ?  Would  they  be  willing 
to  risk  the  awful  dread  of  inheritable  insanity?  Would 
they  be  willing  to  ignore  the  suspicion  of  a  crime  still 
more  terrible  ? "  In  any  case,  was  it  his  duty  to  betray 
either  the  misfortune  or  the  crime  of  his  mother  ?  He 
could  not  feel  in  himself  any  particle  of  that  Brutus-con- 
science  which  took  the  public  into  confidence  or  con- 
sideration. His  mother  was  still  his  mother.  He  could 
find  excuses  for  her  no  stranger  would  allow.  He  knew 
that  her  punishment  had  already  begun.  His  desertion 
of  her  was  a  part  of  it. 

Yes,  in  spite  of  his  own  overwhelming  sorrow,  even 
with  the  thought  of  sweet  Francesca  breaking  his  tender 
heart,  he  sobbed  out  with  an  almost  divine  compassion : 

"  My  poor,  wretched  mother!     God  be  pitiful  to  her!  " 


CHAPTER   IX. 

LOVE    TIED    IN    A    KNOT. 

"  A  little  sorrow,  a  little  pleasure, 
Fate  metes  us  from  the  dusty  measure 
That  holds  the  date  of  all  of  us." 

"Ah,  but  alas!    for  the  smile  of  smiles  that  never  but  one  face 

wore! 

Ah,  for  the  voice  that  has  flown  away,  like  a  bird,  to  an  un- 
known shore!" 

"  Welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne; 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn." 

IT  is  very  hard  to  believe  what  goes  against  our 
wishes ;  and  it  was  almost  impossible  for  Francesca 
to  believe  that  Lancelot  would  now  really  leave  Eng- 
land. There  seemed  to  be  such  good  and  valid  reasons 
for  his  remaining  at  home,  that,  in  spite  of  his  melan- 
choly letters  and  their  certain  air  of  change,  Francesca 
would  not  consider  his  exile  as  a  likelihood. 

One  morning  in  October,  Miss  Loida  and  her  niece 
were  in  the  garden  together.  It  was  a  fresh,  frosty 
morning,  with  plenty  of  sunshine.  The  squire  had  gone 
into  the  village  on  electioneering  business,  and  the 
ladies,  in  spite  of  the  contradiction  in  their  love  affairs, 
were  not  unhappy.  Miss  Loida  was  talking  with  the 
gardener,  and  she  had  her  hands  full  of  the  latest  asters. 


I4O  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

}• rancesca  stood  on  the  terrace  steps  feeding  her  pigeons 
and  laughing  at  the  melting  eyes  they  made  to  their 
perpetual  song  of  "Love!  Love!  Love!"  She  was 
dressed  in  a  gown  of  dark-blue  cloth ;  it  had  little 
turned-over  cuffs  and  collar  of  white  linen,  and  the 
bright-brown  ribbons  of  her  straw  hat  fluttered  about  in 
the  glancing  sunlight.  Her  whole  appearance,  indeed, 
indicated  a  mood  of  serene  pleasure — that  delightful  air 
of  cheerful  happiness  which  surrounds  those  who  can 
enjoy  ordinary  life  without  the  excitement  of  passion  or 
appetite. 

Now,  as  Francesca  scattered  the  wheat,  she  looked 
toward  the  house,  and  saw  a  servant  approaching  her. 
He  had  the  morning's  mail  on  a  salver,  and  he  gave 
Francesca  a  letter,  and  then  carried  one  to  Miss  Loida. 
Francesca's  was  from  Lancelot.  She  finished  giving  the 
pigeons  their  breakfast  with  a  little  conscious  hurry,  and 
then  went  to  the  clematis  arbor.  Miss  Loida  had  taken 
her  letter  into  the  house  to  read ;  Francesca  was  glad 
not  to  anticipate  any  interruption. 

She  sat  down  with  the  fateful  square  of  paper  in  her 
hand  and  suffered  her  eyes  to  dally  with  her  anticipated 
pleasure.  She  had  been  sure  that  every  letter  would 
bring  her  information  of  Lancelot's  change  of  plans; 
she  was  quite  sure  this  particular  one  was  to  set  her 
heart  at  rest.  In  all  her  life  she  had  no  sorrows  to  an- 
ticipate, and  she  had  been  accustomed  to  have  all  her 
desires  granted.  It  was  inconceivable  to  her  that 
Lancelot  should  not  manage  to  make  her  happy  in  the 
way  she  desired.  She  had  even  begun  to  feel  that  he 
had  carried  delay  in  the  matter  quite  long  enough  for 
her  patience  and  pleasure.  So  she  opened  the  envelope 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  141 

finally  with  that  air  of  decision  which  contains  in  it  a 
certain  demand  that  expectation  shall  be  satisfied,  and 
these  were  the  words  she  read : 

"  Farewell,  adorable  Francesca  !  Farewell  !  Farewell  for- 
ever! In  an  hour  I  shall  leave  England,  certainly  for  some  years, 
perhaps  for  the  remainder  of  life.  I  do  not  ask  for  your  remem- 
brance; let  me  be  forgotten  as  soon  as  possible.  For  a  great  mis- 
fortune has  come  to  me;  one  utterly  inconceivable  and  unfore- 
seen ;  and  I  would  die  rather  than  make  you  a  sharer  in  it.  Only 
believe  that,  though  I  suffer,  I  am  innocent  of  all  wrong  in 
thought,  word,  or  deed.  It  is  misfortune  that  I  can  neither  avert 
nor  explain.  If  I  say  that  I  am  broken-hearted,  I  say  too  little. 
I  am  compelled  to  put  love  from  me.  I  am  compelled  to  abandon 
hope.  I  retain  life,  only  because  it  would  be  cowardly  to  resign 
it.  Forget  one  so  miserable.  Forget  the  sweet  hours  we  have 
passed  together  ;  all  our  innocent  dreams  ;  all  our  blessed  hopes 
for  the  future.  I  am  too  wretched  a  man  to  remain  in  your 
thoughts.  O  beloved  Francesca!  My  heart  bleeds  and  breaks. 
Farewell  forever.  LANCELOT." 

She  read  the  letter  through,  at  first  rapidly,  then  with 
a  forced  and  rigid  deliberation,  letting  her  eyes  take  in, 
with  clear  and  positive  certainty,  every  word  and  letter. 
She  did  not  cry  or  faint,  or  evince  any  passionate  sense 
of  the  crushing  sorrow  that  had  come  to  her.  Some 
hot  tears  filled  her  soft,  shining  eyes,  but  they  were  not 
shed.  She  sat  still,  letting  every  miserable  word  smite 
her  like  a  blow.  Only  yesterday  she  had  wept  with 
angry  impatience  because  a  careless  servant  had  let 
loose  into  a  cruel  world  of  cats  and  boys  a  cage-bred 
canary.  But  to-day  she  had  no  tears  for  the  anguish 
which  had  come  to  her  own  heart. 

It  was  at  first  almost  an  impossible  sorrow.  She  did 
not,  she  could  not  believe  in  it.  Why  should  such  grief 


142  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

come  to  her  ?  "  Am  I  awake  ?  "  she  asked,  with  amazed 
and  almost  indignant  incredulity. 

She  had,  also,  a  kind  of  painful  shame  in  being  so 
cruelly  deserted.  Why  had  not  Lancelot  come  to  bid 
her  "  Good-bye  "  ?  Surely  there  was  no  misfortune  he 
could  not  tell  her  about.  She  felt  that  she  was  strong 
enough  and  loving  enough  to  bear  any  misfortune,  how- 
ever great  it  might  be,  with  him.  Why  had  he  not,  then, 
trusted  her  ? 

Besides,  there  was  an  uncertainty  about  the  letter 
which  tortured  her  most  of  all.  Lancelot  said  he  was 
leaving  England,  but  he  did  not  say  to  what  part  of  the 
world  he  was  going.  He  did  not  ask  her  to  write  to  him ; 
he  had  even  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  send  him  a 
letter.  He  said  he  was  going  away  for  years — that  he 
might  never  come  back.  What  conceivable  misfortune 
could  there  be  to  drive  a  lover,  a  young  man  of  family 
and  wealth  and  fine  prospects,  forever  from  his  home 
and  his  native  land,  especially  when  he  declared  himself 
to  be  an  innocent  and  irresponsible  victim  ? 

She  could  not  imagine  one.  Indeed,  Francesca  was 
singularly  unable  to  imagine  situations  of  sorrow  or  of 
evil  fortune.  The  world  had  been  such  a  happy 
world  to  her.  She  had  never  supposed  circumstances 
in  the  which  love  could  fail  to  comfort  her,  or  hope  be 
turned  into  despair.  The  first  hour  of  the  experience 
was  stunning  and  stupefying,  and  she  was  only  con- 
scious of  a  dumb  rebellion  against  some  terrible  suffer- 
ing and  deprivation. 

When  Miss  Loida  came  to  seek  her  niece,  Francesca 
had  for  the  first  moment  or  two  a  sense  of  anger  at  any 
intrusion  into  the  bitterness  of  her  grief.  But  the  real 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A  KNOT.  143 

sweetness  of  her  nature  soon  prevailed,  for  Loida  was 
no  silly  intermeddler  with  another's  trouble.  She  al- 
lowed the  sorrowful  girl  to  be  still  until  she  chose  to 
speak.  She  knew  that  it  was  sufficient  for  Frances<:a 
to  feel  her  at  her  side,  and  to  be  sure  of  her  sympathy. 

"  I  have  had  a  bad  letter,  Aunt  Loida — a  cruel  letter, 
I  think." 

Then  she  put  it  into  her  aunt's  hand,  and  watched  her 
read  it. 

"  It  is  a  cruel  letter,  Francesca.  And  if  it  hurts  you 
to  get  it,  what  must  poor  Lancelot  have  suffered  in  the 
writing  of  it!  Yes,  indeed!  One  can  feel  the  heart- 
break in  every  line." 

"  What  can  be  the  reason  for  it,  aunt  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  But  I  am  sure  Lancelot  is  not 
to  blame  in  any  way.  Poor  fellow !  How  he  must  be 
suffering !  God  help  him !  " 

"  I  am  suffering  also,  aunt." 

"I  know  you  are.  Oh,  I  know  you  are!  But  you 
have  your  dear  father  to  love  and  comfort  you,  and  you 
have  Aunt  Loida  to  suffer  every  pang  with  you ;  and 
you  have  a  good  home  and  plenty  of  money,  and  many 
friends.  Lancelot  has  just  buried  a  father  whom  he 
idolized.  He  has  no  friends  but  you  and  me.  For 
some  reason — I  am  sure  a  good  one,  as  far  as  he  is 
concerned — he  is  homeless,  friendless,  without  much 
money,  and  an  exile  from  his  own  land  and  people,  and, 
above  all,  obliged  by  his  love  and  honor  to  give  back 
your  love  and  allegiance.  Can  you  conceive  of  a  man 
in  a  more  pitiable  condition,  of  a  man  more  worthy  of 
sympathy  and  love  ?  Yes,  dear,  I  say  love.  If  I  were 
in  your  place  I  should  love  him  ten  thousand  times 


144  LOl'E  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

more  for  his  noble  resignations  and  resolutions ;  I  am 
sure  they  are  noble.  I  would  not  believe  the  whole 
world  against  Lancelot's  simple  assertion,  that  he  has 
•done  nothing  worthy  of  his  suffering.  Would  you, 
dear?" 

"  No,  I  would  not." 

"  That  is  right.  Then  the  sting  is  out  of  your  sorrow. 
To  love  worthily,  that  is  everything." 

"  But  when  he  tells  me  not  to  love  him — tells  me  to 
forget  him — when  he  has  hid  himself  away  from  me  so 
that  I  cannot  even  send  him  a  letter,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Go  on  loving  him  all  the  more.  Go  on  thinking 
about  him  all  the  more.  Do  everything  possible  to  find 
out  where  he  has  gone  to,  and  then  send  him  the  sweet- 
est, tenderest  messages  you  can  write.  That  is  what 
you  ought  to  do,  dear.  I  dare  be  sure  that  we  shall 
find  him  out.  His  mother  will  certainly  know  in  a  little 
time.  Then,  of  course,  she  would  tell  you,  because  she 
would  hope  that  you  could  bring  him  home ;  and,  of 
course,  she  will  want  him  home." 

"  She  is  a  very  strange  woman,  Loida." 

"  I  dare  say  she  is  a  very  awkward  and  disagreeable 
woman ;  but,  then,  it  is  the  motJier  in  the  woman  you 
will  have  to  deal  with.  All  mothers  are  gentle  and 
kind,  I  am  sure.  Everything  will  come  right,  Fran- 
cesca — I  am  sure  it  will — and  you  will  love  each  other 
when  Lancelot  comes  back  as  you  never  could  have 
loved  had  you  not  been  separated.  Ah,  Francesca,  all 
women,  in  one  way  or  other,  have  to  find  out  that  of  all 
the  sorrowful  things  in  life  the  hardest  of  all  is  loving." 

And  the  girl  was  for  the  time  consoled,  because  Loida 
understood  that  in  the  first  hours  of  sorrow  comfort 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  145 

must  often  consist  in  promising  the  impossible,  and  in 
asserting  whatever  is  the  desire  of  the  wounded  heart. 
Francesca  wished  to  believe  all  that  Loida  said ;  she 
therefore  accepted  her  assurances,  and  took  what  hope 
they  promised  her.  Another  course  might  have  been 
more  prudent  and  less  kind.  As  it  was,  Francesca 
suffered  very  much.  No  one  knew  at  the  time  how 
much,  for  the  circumstances  seemed  to  suddenly  develop 
in  her  girl-heart  a  woman's  reticence  and  noble  restraint. 
For  some  days  the  affair  was  not  spoken  of  again,  and 
the  squire  noticed  the  pallor  of  his  daughter's  face  and 
the  singular  stillness  of  her  manner. 

"  Whatever  is  the  matter  with  my  little  girl?  "  he  said 
to  Miss  Vyner  one  afternoon.  "  She  is  either  sick  or  in 
trouble.  Is  it  about  that  young  man,  Loida  !  " 

"  Things  are  not  very  pleasant  about  him,  are  they, 
Rashleigh  ?  " 

"  No,  they  are  not.     I  am  not  to  blame,  am  I,  now  1 " 

"  I  cannot  say  you  are." 

"  Well,  then  ?  " 

"  Nay,  brother,  I  never  talked  much  about  my  own 
trouble ;  it  is  not  likely  I  will  talk  of  Francesca's.  I 
dare  say  she  will  tell  you  sooner  or  later,  whatever  there 
is  to  tell." 

"  Has  he  gone  away  yet  ?     Tell  me  that  much." 

Before  Loida  could  answer,  the  door  opened  and 
Francesca  entered.  The  squire  looked  kindly  at  her, 
and  drew  her  chair  close  to  his  own.  She  sat  down 
and  laid  her  head  against  his  big  breast,  and  as  he 
silently  stroked  her  head,  she  began  to  cry.  He  was 
much  moved.  His  voice  trembled  with  the  tears  in  it, 
as  he  said : 


146  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"Francesca!  Why,  honey!  Why,  joy!  Whatever 
is  the  matter  ? " 

"  Lancelot  has  gone  away  from  England,  father." 

"  He  will  come  back,  I'll  be  bound!  " 

"He  says  he  will  not  come  back.  He  gave  me  back 
my  troth.  He  says  I  must  forget  him  forever." 

"The  impudent  rascal!  He  gave  thee  back  thy 
troth!  My  word,  but  he  was  never  worthy  of  thee! " 

"  Father,  you  must  not  say  a  word  against  Lancelot. 
It  is  because  he  is  so  noble,  so  honorable,  so  truly  fond 
of  me  that  he  gave  up  our  engagement.  I  want  you  to 
find  out  where  he  has  gone  to.  He  did  not  tell  me." 

"  Nay,  my  dear,  I  will  not  do  that.  If  he  has  gone, 
let  him  go.  Francesca  Atherton  is  not  such  a  lass  as 
to  run  after  a  sweetheart — prince  or  spinner." 

"  Father,  dear,  Lancelot  was  something  more  than  a 
passing  sweetheart.  \Ve  had  only  one  heart  and  one 
life  between  us.  If  anything  happens  to  Lancelot,  I 
shall  die  too." 

"  Nay,  thou  wilt  not.  Thou  hast  more  sense  than  to 
break  thy  heart  for  any  man.  Why-a!  it  is  not  maidenly 
to  talk  that  way." 

"  Father,  I  do  not  live  in  scraps  and  little  bits  as 
some  women  do  ;  an  hour  of  love  and  an  hour  of  merry- 
making, a  thought  about  money  and  a  thought  about 
marriage  and  so  on — I  love  you  with  all  my  heart — I 
would  not  for  one  week  give  you  up,  father,  to  be  queen 
of  England.  I  love  Lancelot  in  the  same  altogether 
way.  Lancelot  has  gone  away  because  he  has  a  mis- 
fortune he  will  not  let  me  share.  I  want  to  find  out 
where  he  has  gone  to,  for  I  want  to  write  to  him  and 
tell  him  I  would  gladly  share  all  his  misfortunes. 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  147 

Father,  here  is  his  last  letter.  Read  it.  Any  one  may 
read  the  words  of  a  love  so  broken-hearted." 

The  squire  took  the  letter  with  some  reluctance,  and 
only  read  it  because  Francesca's  head  upon  his  heart 
made  her  pleading  irresistible. 

"  It  is  a  middling  bit  of  despair,"  he  said,  when  he 
had  glanced  at  Lancelot's  "farewell."  "And  I  must 
say  the  lad  has  done  the  very  best  thing  possible  under 
the  circumstances." 

"  But  what  circumstances,  father  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  say  '  what  cir- 
cumstances.' I  may  have  my  suspicions,  but  I  have  no 
right  to  give  them  a  name.  It  would  never  do  to  put 
suspicions  into  words ;  that  might  be  the  biggest  wrong 
of  all.  But  I  will,  say  this  much :  Lancelot  is  in  no  way 
to  blame,  I  am  sure.  I  hold  him  to  be  square  and 
honorable  as  a  man  can  be." 

"  Then  find  out  where  he  has  gone  to,  father." 

"  I'd  rather  not.     Thou  might  write  to  him." 

"  Yes,  I  would  write  to  him." 

"  It  would  not  be  kind  of  thee.  Forget,  and  let  him 
forget." 

"  No ;  I  will  not  forget.  He  may  forget,  if  he  can. 
I  will  not  forget.  I  will  remember,  and  I  will  love  him 
to  the  end  of  my  life." 

"  Dear  me !  What  stubborn  stuff  women  are  made 
of!"  And  he  looked  half  reproachfully  at  Loida,  who 
sat,  with  an  expression  of  approval  on  her  face,  opposite 
to  him. 

"Brother,"  she  answered,  in  reply  to  his  accusing 
glance — "  brother,  it  is  a  very  good  thing  for  men  gener- 
ally that  women  are  made  of  stubborn  stuff.  I  cannot 


148  LOl'E   J-'OR   AX  HOUR. 

think  what  men  would  do  if  women  were  not  so  made  as 
to  believe  black  was  white,  and  stand  to  their  conviction." 

"  To  be  sure !      To  be  sure ! " 

"  Father,  you  will  find  out  for  me  where  Lancelot  has 
gone  to.  I  cannot  do  such  a  thing  as  that  for  myself. 
Can  I  ? " 

"  I  should  think  not.  Don't  thee  cry  in  such  a  way 
as  that.  Thou  breaks  my  heart.  I  will  do  what  thou 
asks  me  to  do ;  but  I  tell  thee  plainly  I  would  a  deal 
rather  not  do  it.  And  don't  thee  try  my  love  too  far.  I 
would  call  it  taking  a  mean  advantage  of  a  fond  heart." 

He  rose  with  the  words,  and  going  to  the  window,  he 
said : 

"  It  is  raining  hard.  But  I  think  I  will  go  to  the 
stables  a  bit.  There  are  always  things  that  should  be 
done  there  in  bad  weather.  And  they  will  not  get  done 
if  somebody  does  not  see  after  them." 

It  was  an  errand  made  to  escape  the  sorrowful  atmos- 
phere of  the  room,  and  perhaps  neither  of  the  women 
was  sorry  for  it.  The  squire  was  evidently  only  sym- 
pathetic  in  a  small  degree,  and  Francesca  felt  as  if  the 
world  ought  to  turn  upon  the  axis  of  her  loss.  Nothing 
else  in  it  appeared  worth  thinking  about  or  conversing 
about,  and  she  sat  down  in  the  large  chair  her  father  had 
just  vacated,  the  very  picture-of  woe. 

For  a  short  time  Loida  remained  silent.  The  rain 
beat  against  the  windows ;  the  fog  shut  the  nearest  trees 
and  shrubs  from  sight ;  vision  was  restricted  to  the  room 
in  which  they  sat ;  and,  except  for  the  leaping,  blazing 
fire  and  the  shining  steel  grate  and  hearth  furniture,  the 
room  partook  of  the  gloom  outside.  The  pictures  were 
dim,  the  furniture  almost  black,  the  carpets  darkly  inde- 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A    KNOT.  149 

terminate,  the  curtains  had  a  depressed  "  hang,"  the 
china  ornaments  a  ghostly  pallor,  and  there  was  no> 
cheerful  sound  to  appeal  to  another  sense;  only  the 
wind  wailing  round  the  garden  and  dashing  the  loose  ivy 
sprays  against  the  casements. 

Youth  is  so  impatient  of  suffering,  and  Francesca  was 
not  only  amazed,  but  almost  indignant,  at  the  cruel  fate 
which  had  suddenly  deprived  her  of  her  happiness-. 
Always  before,  in  all  her  small  trials,  she  had  received 
instant  and  unqualified  sympathy ;  always  before  the 
squire  had  been  sufficient  to  bring  her  help  or  relief. 
She  would  not  believe  but  that  he  could,  if  he  would, 
bring  back  Lancelot.  She  was  sure  Lancelot  was  going 
away  for  want  of  money,  and  she  felt  her  father's  silence 
on  this  subject  to  be  particularly  unfeeling.  She  had 
still  a  childish  idea  that  her  father's  resources  were  un- 
limited ;  and  she  was  certainly  feeling,  at  that  hour,  that 
the  chief  and  most  desirable  use  of  money  was  to  bring 
home  again  her  lover. 

"What  is  the  use  of  being  rich,"  she  asked  Loida, 
"if  you  cannot  use  riches  to  save  love?  There  is 
nothing  on  earth  better  than  love,  eh,  Loida  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  are  things  better  than  love — nobler  than 
love — without  which  any  love  worth  having  cannot 
exist." 

"That  is  not  so,  Loida.  Love  is  everything.  I 
would  give  my  life  for  my  love." 

"  You  might  give  your  life,  but  yet  there  is  something 
you  would  not  give,  something  more  precious  than  life — • 
honor.  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,  Francesca.  I 
know  you  are  inclined  to  blame  your  good  father  for 
not  offering  Lancelot  money  enough  to  keep  him  in 


150  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

England.  My  dear,  if  Lancelot  had  taken  such  money, 
I,  for  one,  would  despise  him.  In  a  little  while  you 
would  despise  him  also.  A  man  who  cannot  support  a 
wife  has  no  business  with  one.  To  take  a  man's  daugh- 
ter is  a  great  demand  upon  any  father's  heart,  yet  a  lover 
for  the  daughter's  sake  may  find  courage  to  ask  so 
much — but  to  take  money  also!  We  will  not  discuss  a 
contingency  like  that.  It  is  out  of  honorable  consider- 
ation, and  I  am  sure  Lancelot  is  an  honorable  gentle- 
man." 

"It  is  easy  to  talk  of  'honor,'  Loida.  Honor! 
Honor!  What  is  it?  A  noisy  nothing,  invented  by 
the  proud.  Am  I  to  lose  love  for  honor  ?  And  how  is 
Lancelot's  honor  at  stake  ?  I  do  not  understand.  He 
spent  all  his  money  in  that  dreadful  mill,  for  his  honor. 
Our  marriage  was  put  off  because  his  money  was  gone, 
and  it  was  not  '  honorable '  to  ask  for  me  while  he  was 
poor.  One  can  understand  how  poor  women  suffer  for 
love,  in  some  way  or  other,  all  their  lives  long.  But  it 
is  not  fair  to  throw  '  honor '  at  their  hearts  also." 

"  Being  what  you  are,  Francesca,  honor  obliges  you 
to  be  noble  in  all  things ;  and  so  to  nobly  deny  yourself, 
even  in  love." 

"  I  shall  die  for  '  honor,'  then.  I  cannot  live  long 
without  Lancelot." 

"  Other  women  have  loved  and  lost,  and  lived  on." 

"  I  am  not  '  other  women.'  Every  one  is  cruel  to 
me,  even  Lancelot.  Why  did  he  go  away  without  see- 
ing me  ?  If  there  was  any  dishonor  in  the  case,  I  would 
have  forgiven  him  the  dishonor." 

"  Lancelot  would  never  forgive  himself.  I  should 
say  that  a  dishonorable  thought  was  impossible  to  him. 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  151 

There  may  be  circumstances  unknown  to  any  one,  mak- 
ing it  a  kind  of  dishonor  to  see  you  again.  And  do  not 
speak  lightly  of  such  self-denial.  For  no  one  can  annul 
dishonor ;  it  is  irreparable,  and  though  its  loss  may  be 
forgiven,  who  can  restore  it  ?  A  fleece  stained  by  the 
dyer  never  regains  its  whiteness.  A  character  stained 
by  dishonor  never  recovers  the  glory  of  a  stainless  in- 
tegrity." 

"  Do  not  preach  to  me,  Loida.    I  am  so  miserable." 

There  was  a  few  minutes'  silence.  Francesca  sat 
with  her  head  thrown  back  and  her  eyes  closed.  Loida's 
hands  were  busy  with  her  crochet,  but  her  heart  was  in 
a  tempest  of  feeling,  of  uncertainty,  of  pitiful  sympathy. 
She  glanced  upward ;  the  storm  was  unabated,  the  room 
growing  more  and  more  gloomy.  Francesca's  face  was 
the  image  of  despair ;  its  pallor  was  the  dull  pallor  of 
heartache.  The  child  was  suffering  greatly;  no  one 
knew  that  better  than  Loida  Vyner. 

She  came  suddenly  to  a  determination.  Then  she 
put  aside  her  trifle  of  work  and  took  her  chair  to  Fran- 
cesca's side.  Francesca  let  her  clasp  her  hand.  It  was 
cold,  and  the  limp  fingers  made  no  responsive  effort. 
She  did  not  move  or  open  her  eyes  or  acknowledge  in 
any  way  her  aunt's  attention  to  her.  She  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  bear  her  sorrow  without  discussing  it. 

"  Francesca,  my  dear." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Loida." 

"  Look  at  me  and  listen  to  me.  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  about  Dick  Alderson :  Dick  was — I  hope  in  God's 
mercy  Dick  is  yet — my  lover." 

Then  Francesca  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  with  in- 
terest into  her  aunt's  face. 


152  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  I  never  talk  to  any  one  about  Dick.  I  have  not 
uttered  his  name  to  mortal  man  or  woman,  except  to  his 
dear  mother,  for  ten  years ;  yet,  Francesca,  I  love  him — 
I  love  him  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  Must  I  tell  you 
about  Dick  ? " 

"  If  you  please,  dear  aunt." 

"  Your  mother  and  I  were  co-heiresses  of  a  small 
estate  near  Tipham  Market.  Our  parents  died  when  we 
were  young.  We  had  no  near  relatives.  The  Alder- 
sons  were  friends ;  we  went  there  very  often.  Dick 
was  their  only  child,  and  Dick  loved  me  when  I  was  a 
girl  ten  years  old.  At  a  ball  in  the  city  of  York  your 
mother  met  Squire  Atherton,  and  when  she  married 
him  I  spent  my  time  between  this  house  and  Alderson 
Bars.  You  know  how  you  love  Lancelot ;  so  I  loved 
Dick.  There  never  was  any  other  lover  or  thought  in 
my  heart. 

"  Dick's  father  and  grandfather  had  been  private 
bankers  in  Tipham  Market.  The  farmers  and  traders  for 
twenty  miles  round  used  Alderson's  bank,  and  thought 
it  safer  than  the  Bank  of  England.  When  Dick  was 
twenty-seven  years  old  his  father  died,  and  then  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  business.  I  was  then  seventeen,  and  it  was 
decided  that  as  soon  as  I  was  twenty  Dick  and  I  were 
to  marry.  My  dear,  I  was  so  happy !  I  was  so  happy ! " 

"  Was  Dick  handsome  and  good  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  other  man  half  so  handsome. 
He  had  a  charming  face  and  a  manner  no  one  could 
resist.  Old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  loved  Dick 
Alderson ;  and  he  really  loved  his  fellow-creatures. 
O  Francesca,  for  four  years  we  loved  each  other  without 
a  shadow.  For  four  years  life  was  a  love-song  that  we 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A  KNOT.  153 

sang  together.  For  four  years  it  was  a  wonderful  love- 
story,  and  we  two  wrote  it  together.  In  the  twilight  in 
the  garden ;  in  the  sunshine  on  the  moor ;  in  the  dear 
old  church,  praying  together ;  sitting  hand  in  hand  in 
the  fire-lit  parlor ;  dreaming  the  same  dream,  catching 
the  same  words  from  each  other's  eyes  and  lips.  You 
know,  Francesca?" 

"  I  know — I  know." 

"  It  was  near  the  day  fixed  for  our  marriage.  Our 
house  was  furnished ;  my  bridal  dresses  were  ready ; 
the  company  was  bid  to  the  wedding-feast.  I  had  no 
fear  of  evil  fortune.  I  thought  it  would  always  be  well 
with  me.  I  was  as  gay  and  busy  as  the  birds  building 
in  the  garden ;  so  gay  and  busy  I  never  noticed  at  the 
time  that  a  singular  shadow  was  on  Dick's  face ;  that 
he  was  silent  and  preoccupied,  often  making  figures  in 
his  note-book  and  writing  many  letters,  even  when  at 
home.  I  thought  of  these  things  afterward ;  at  the 
time  they  were  only  a  part  of  the  great,  the  happy 
change  which  was  coming  into  our  lives. 

"  One  afternoon,  Dick  came  home  very  early.  I  was 
with  his  mother  in  a  small  parlor,  and  we  were  packing 
up  in  their  baize-lined  mahogany  cases  the  silver  which 
was  to  go  with  us  to  our  own  home.  We  stood  over  it 
at  a  table  crowded  with  the  shining  pieces.  Dick's  face 
was  as  white  as  yours  is  at  this  moment.  He  came  in 
quickly,  and  then  went  back  and  shut  the  door.  His 
mother  and  I  both  looked  inquiringly  at  him,  he  was  so 
much  earlier  than  we  expected.  Then  he  did  not  kiss 
us,  as  was  his  wont ;  but  laying  his  hand  on  his  mother's 
hand,  he  said,  oh,  so  pitifully : 

"'Mother!      Loida!      I  am  a  ruined  man!      Every^ 


154  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

thing  is  lost!  I  must  go  away  instantly — this  very 
hour.  All  will  be  known  to  morrow.'  " 

"  Aunt,  how  could  you  bear  it  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  know  what  we  can  bear  until  we  come 
to  the  moment  of  trial.  I  went  to  his  side.  His 
mother  said  :< 

'"Sit  down,  Dick,  and  tell  us  the  truth.  What  is  the 
trouble,  my  dear  ?  '  " 

"  As  she  was  speaking,  we  all  sat  down  on  the  sofa, 
Dick  sitting  between  us.  I  put  my  hand  into  his  hand. 
He  turned  his  face  to  his  mother,  and  said : 

" '  I  have  been  speculating  in  railway  stock.  I 
thought  it  was  sure  and  safe.  The  stock  is  worthless.' 

"  '  Do  you  mean  that  you  used  the  money  in  the  bank 
to  speculate  with  ? ' 

" '  Yes,  mother.'  He  said  the  words  in  a  whisper, 
and  never  lifted  his  eyes  as  he  spoke. 

"  '  Is  there  no  hope  ? '  she  asked.  '  Can  we  not  sell 
everything?' 

"  '  Mother,'  answered  Dick, '  hope  has  led  me  on  and 
on,  and  this  morning  I  got  news  which  leaves  me  ruined 
every  way.  There  is  a  meeting  of  the  directors  in  a 
day  or  two,  and  then  all  must  be  told.  I  can  hide  the 
facts  no  longer.' " 

"Aunt  Loida,  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  speak.  His  mother  stood  up  and  an- 
swered :  '  Then,  Dick,  'you  must  tell  them.  You  shall 
not  run  away.  I  would  keep  you  a  prisoner  myself, 
rather  than  let  you  do  such  a  cowardly  thing.  Meet 
the  men  you  have  wronged  face  to  face.  Show  them 
how  and  where  the  wrong  is.  Pledge  them  your  hon — 
your  whole  estate  to  secure  the  interest  of  their  money. 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  155 

Tell  them  you  are  going  to  this  new  land  of  gold  just 
discovered  in  America,  to  make  the  principal.'  " 

"  Was  that  California,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear.  People  were  then  rushing  there  from 
all  parts  of  the  world ;  and  Dick's  mother  told  him  he 
must  also  go  and  try  to  retrieve  his  fortune.  '  If  you 
will  not  do  as  I  tell  you,  Dick/  she  said,  '  why,  then,  run 
away  like  a  rascal  and  a  coward,  and  forget  you  ever 
had  a  mother.'  She  asked  me  if  that  was  not  the  right 
thing  to  do,  and  I  could  just  whisper  'Yes.'  And  I  was 
like  a  woman  going  out  of  the  sunshine  into  a  vault, 
and  all  the  world  was  a  sudden  black  void,  and  life  felt 
as  if  it  could  not  be  borne." 

"  Aunt,  it  was  worse  for  you  than  it  is  for  me! " 

"  I  think  it  was,  dear.  I  felt  then  that  no  other 
woman  had  ever  met  with  such  shame  and  grief." 

"  What  did  Dick  do  ?  " 

"  Everything  his  mother  advised.  He  saw  the  people 
he  had  wronged  and  made  the  best  arrangements  pos- 
sible. They  were  not  hard  with  him :  far  from  it.  One 
old  squire,  who  had  been  his  father's  friend,  cried  for 
very  grief,  and  blamed  himself  for  not  advising  Dick 
better.  He  even  offered  to  lend  Dick  money.  But 
Dick  had  to  go  away,  Francesca.  It  is  ten  years  since. 
I  was  twenty  then ;  I  am  thirty  now." 

"  But  you  hear  from  him  ?  " 

"  His  mother  does.  Before  he  left  I  gave  him  back 
our  betrothal  ring.  I  told  him  when  he  brought  it  to 
me  again  with  clean  hands,  I  would  marry  him.  He 
will  come  some  day.  I  am  waiting  for  him." 

"  How  long  you  have  suffered !  Did  he  go  to  Cali- 
fornia ?  " 


156  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  No.  He  met  on  the  voyage  out  a  young  man  who 
was  going  to  some  Mexican  mines  as  superintendent  ot 
engineers.  He  strongly  advised  Dick  not  to  go  to  Cali- 
fornia. He  said  he  was  unfit  for  a  struggle  with  the 
preponderating  population,  and  he  offered  Dick  a  good 
position.  The  certainty  seemed  best,  and  doubtless  was 
best  for  Dick.  He  has  sent  home  every  year  varying 
sums  of  money,  sometimes  a  great  deal,  sometimes  not 
so  much.  But  the  debt  is  very  near  clear.  We  think 
he  is  now  blockade  running,  for  no  letter  has  come  for 
nearly  nine  months.  He  spoke  of  this  change  in  his 
last  letter,  and  there  are  no  post-offices  at  sea." 

"  When  you  go  away  every  year,  is  it  Dick's  mother 
you  go  to  see  ?  " 

"  Yes.     And  she  writes  to  me  whenever  there  is  any 
news.     I  do  not  let  myself  fret  or  fear.     I  get  up  every 
morning  wondering  '  if  Dick  will  come  that  day ' ;  and  I 
go  to  bed  every  night  saying :   '  Well,  then,  perhaps  to- 
morrow !      Perhaps  to-morrow ! '  " 
"  It  is  hard  to  be  a  woman,  Loida." 
"  It  is.     No  wonder  tragedies  are  made  from  us." 
"Were  you  always  patient  and  hopeful,  Loida?" 
"  No ;   I  was  not.     I  nearly  died  of  grief.     It  was  a 
living  death  at  first.     Wisdom  never  comes  at  the  begin- 
ning of  a  sorrow.     It  is  the  late  fruit,  after  the  tempest 
and  wind  and  frost  of  calamity." 

"  When  Dick  comes  home,  can  your  love  ever  be  the 
same  ? " 

"  No.  I  do  not  hope  for  the  impossible.  We  have 
both  outgrown  love's  first  rapture.  I  know  that,  for,  a 
little  while  ago,  I  opened  a  volume  of  Moore's  poetry 
that  we  used  to  read  together  and  think  the  most  won- 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  157 

derful  poetry  that  ever  was  written.  I  think  it  now  ex- 
tremely silly,,  and  yet — and  yet,  when  alone  at  the  close 
of  a  year,  I  wonder — 

"  '  Is  the  nightingale  singing  thereof 

Are  the  roses  still  sweet  by  the  calm  Bendemeer? ' 

But  I  know  nothing  will  bring  back  the  glory  of  those 
days  before  I  knew  what  sorrow  and  sorrowful  love 
meant.  Neither,  Francesca,  do  I  wish  them  brought 
back.  Nothing  you  have  to  go  back  for  is  worth  hav- 
ing." 

"  You  still  love  Dick  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  one  thought  that  runs  through  all  my  days." 

At  this  point  the  squire  entered.  He  was  rosy  and 
damp,  and  had  the  breath  of  the  chill  rain  about  him. 
For  the  wind  had  changed,  and  it  was  growing  very 
cold.  He  walked  to  the  fire  at  once,  and  stirred  it  vig- 
orously. 

"My  word!  "he  said.  "Women  will  talk,  if  they 
freeze." 

He  assumed  a  pleasant  little  bluster,  and  pretended 
to  be  colder  and  damper  than  he  was,  for  he  wished  to 
put  out  of  mind  all  memories  of  the  conversation  which 
had  sent  him  into  the  storm. 

"  They  are  doing  well  enough  at  the  stable,"  he  said 
to  Loida,  "  so  I  went  over  to  Asquith's  about  some 
timber.  He  does  beat  everything  for  an  ill-thinking 
man." 

"  Does  he  not  live  in  that  lonely  house  by  the  Chime- 
of-Bells  Inn  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  hath  a  fierce  dog  to  give  you  welcome, 
and  a  currish  voice  to  confirm  it,  and  the  way  out  of  his 


158  LOVE  FOR  AN  HC'^R. 

place  is  open  always.  His  dog  and  he  are  the  only 
good  fellows  in  the  world,  he  says,  and — my  word !  — 
we  should  be  a  poor  lot  if  they  were  the  best." 

"  I  heard  his  dog  took  a  prize  in  the  London  dog 
show." 

"  That  is  true.  He  wanted  me  to  send  my  dog  Sul- 
tan to  the  show,  also." 

"  Why  did  you  not  do  so  ?  Sultan  is  far  beyond  As- 
quith's  dog." 

"  Loida,  I  am  astonished  at  thee.  Send  Sultan  to  a 
dog  show !  Dogs  have  feelings,  and  a  decent  dog  does 
not  like  being  looked  at  by  a  lot  of  people  he  does  not 
know  anything  about.  I  put  it  to  myself.  I  said: 
'  Rashleigh  Atherton,  how  would  you  like  to  be  exhib- 
ited in  a  man  show?'  Sultan  has  very  gentlemanly 
feelings." 

"  About  a  dog  there  is  a  great  mystery." 

"  To  be  sure  there  is.  Sultan  has  a  good  deal  of 
humanity  in  him ;  and  of  a  noble  kind,  too.  When  he 
walks  out  with  ladies,  he  treats  them  as  if  he  wereflreux 
chevalier;  and  at  such  times  he  never  notices  any  other 
dog.  But  when  he  walks  out  with  me,  he  likes  to  put 
on  airs  and  have  a  fight.  He  has  thrashed  all  the  dogs 
for  miles  round,  and  he  is  fair  melancholy  for  some  new 
ones  to  come  into  the  neighborhood  ;  " — then  he  looked 
round,  and  saw  that  Francesca  had  left  the  room,  and 
he  stooped  forward  and  said  softly :  "  The  poor  little 
one!  Is  she  in  very  deep  trouble,  Loida?" 

"  Yes,  brother — but  she  will  conquer  it.  We  all  have 
to  do  so,  in  a  fashion." 

Then  a  servant  entered  with  candles  and  the  tea 
service,  and  the  squire  began  to  speak  of  Asquith's  dog. 


LOVE    TIED  IN  A   KNOT.  159 

So  the  little  domestic  play  of  talking  of  one  thing  and 
thinking  of  another  went  on  its  usual  uninteresting, 
desultory  way.  The  servants  were  not  deceived  by  the 
conversation.  They  had  already  decided  that  "  some- 
thing had  gone  wrong  between  Miss  Atherton  and  Mr. 
Leigh  " 


CHAPTER   X. 

AT   LAST   GOD    BRINGS    THE    TARDY    BLESSINO 

*'  Who  know  themselves  and  know  the  way  before  them, 
And  from  among  them  choose  considerately, 
With  clear  foresight,  not  a  blindfold  courage ; 
And  having  chosen,  with  a  steadfast  mind 
Pursue  their  purposes." 

"  God  hath  brought  the  tardy  blessing 
Round  her  at  the  last." 

LANCELOT  did  not  find  it  as  easy  to  escape  from 
his  sorrowful  dilemma  as  he  expected.  The  death 
of  his  father  and  his  own  serious  resolve  to  take  nothing 
from  an  estate  fallen  too  early  into  his  power  made  the 
carrying  out  of  his  cotton  plan  difficult,  and,  to  himself, 
undesirable.  He  had  not  either  the  cash  or  credit  to 
personally  back  the  scheme.  And  he  had  resolved  to  re- 
main away  from  England  some  years.  Indeed,  as  soon 
as  commercial  circumstances  made  such  a  sale  possible, 
he  intended  to  sell  his  own  mill  at  Atherton,  and  with 
the  proceeds  pursue  fortune  in  some  other  land. 

The  resignation  of  his  cotton  scheme  also  left  the  world 
open  to  him.  Mexico  had  then  no  special  claim  on  his 
fancy  or  interest.  On  the  contrary,  India,  Canada, 
Australia  presented  far  more  natural  opportunities.  He 
did  not,  however,  speak  of  any  such  change  of  deter- 
mination. The  world  around  him  had  already  accepted 
the  necessity  for  cotton  as  an  excuse  sufficient  for  desert- 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING,     l6l 

ing  his  home  and  apparent  interests,  and  it  seemed  best 
to  allow  it  this  resolution  of  whatever  was  strange  in  his 
conduct. 

He  had  never  before  supposed  it  would  be  difficult  to 
obtain  two  thousand  pounds,  but  it  was  several  weeks  ere 
his  lawyer  managed  to  effect  this  loan  upon  his  Ather- 
ton  mill.  During  these  weeks  he  kept  himself  in  great 
seclusion.  To  his  mother  he  spoke  very  little.  She  had 
accepted  without  dispute  the  charge  Lancelot  threw 
upon  her  respecting  the  property,  and  her  first  step  was 
to  send  for  the  overlooker,  and  in  Lancelot's  and  her 
own  name  close  the  Garsby  Mill.  Then  she  immediately 
hired  more  servants,  and  began  a  systematic  and  thor- 
ough cultivation  of  every  inch  of  Leigh  Farm. 

"Wheat  and  fodder  will  be  wanted  as  long  as  the 
world  lasts,"  she  said ;  "  and  if  folks  stick  to  the  land, 
the  land  will  feed  them,  and  happen  make  money  for 
them." 

Lancelot  opposed  nothing  and  indorsed  nothing,  and 
when  she  found  all  efforts  at  conciliation  and  co-oper- 
ation unresponded  to,  she  hid  herself  entirely  behind 
a  countenance  cold,  impassive,  and  expressionless. 
Lancelot  sat  at  meat  with  her ;  they  had  nothing  else  in 
common.  The  youth  wandered  alone  among  the  thickly 
shaded  walks  in  the  garden,  or  he  sat  musing  in  his  dis- 
mantled rooms.  He  could  not  read ;  every  subject  but 
Francesca  slipped  away  from  his  consciousness ;  and 
the  sound  of  his  piano  would  have  shocked  and  offended 
him.  Francesca  supplied  all  the  springs  of  his  mind ; 
her  sweetness ;  her  beauty ;  her  confiding  love ;  her 
piteous  loss ;  he  went  over  and  over  this  ground,  and 
only  varied  it  by  still  sadder  reflections  on  his  father's 


1 62  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

death,  his  mother's  painful  condition,  the  national  dis- 
tress, their  loss  of  money,  the  closing  of  both  mills,  and 
the  absolute  necessity  for  his  own  expatriation. 

He  was  thinking  somberly  of  the  latter  circumstance 
one  morning,  when  his  mother  entered  his  room.  She 
had  an  air  of  business  about  her,  the  alert  manner  of  a 
person  on  whom  there  are  great  and  grave  charges. 
Advancing  to  Lancelot,  she  cast  a  letter  down  upon  the 
table,  and  said : 

"  There,  then !  That  came  half  an  hour  since.  Some 
woman  scribbling  to  thee,  I  see.  If  I  was  thee,  I  would 
try  and  find  something  else  to  do  with  life,  than  to  sit 
still  and  dream  it  away." 

He  took  the  letter  with  a  "  Thank  you,  mother." 

"  Nay,  thou  needn't  thank  me.  It  hes  the  Atherton 
postmark  on  it,  and — "  then  he  looked  anxiously  at 
the  letter  and  saw  it  was  Miss  Loida's  writing.  Imme- 
diately he  was  sure  that  Francesca  was  ill.  A  swoon  of 
fearful  thoughts  turned  him  sick  and  faint. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  will  you  leave  me  now  ?  I — I 
want  to  read  my  letter.  I  am  terrified." 

"  About  Miss  Atherton  ?  To  be  sure.  Thy  mother 
is  to  go  away  that  thou  may  read  about  her  and  hev 
thy  love-feast  all  to  thysen.  Does  ta  think  I'll  stay 
where  I  am  not  wanted?  Not  I.  Mebbe  it  will  come 
into  thy  mind,  either  to  live  like  a  Christian  in  thy  home, 
or  to  get  out  of  a  place  not  good  enough  for  thee,  as 
soon  as  iver  ta  can." 

"I  will,  mother." 

Then  she  left  the  room  with  an  air  of  indifference,  but 
her  heart  was  burning  within  her.  She  was  truly  angry 
at  Lancelot,  but  far  more  angry  at  herself.  Her  blame 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING.      1 6$ 

of  him  was  from  the  lips  only ;  she  accused  herself  con- 
tinually with  her  very  soul,  in  words  she  durst  not  utter, 
in  tears  she  would  not  shed. 

When  the  door  was  closed,  Lancelot  opened  his  let- 
ter. He  was  sure  it  contained  ill  news,  and  it  was  after 
all  only  a  friendly  note  of  advice.  And  yet,  it  was  the 
determining  note  of  his  future : 

"  Dear  Sir:  "  Miss  Loida  wrote.  "  I  hear  that  you  are  going 
to  Mexico.  It  is  sad  to  be  in  a  strange  country  without  a  friend. 
I  have  a  dear  friend  who  has  been  at  the  San  Lepato  mines  for  ten 
years.  I  think  he  may  be  there  yet.  If  not,  he  is  at  some  Mexi- 
can seaport  in  the  blockade  business.  His  name  is  Richard  Al- 
derson ;  and  if  you  show  him  this  letter,  he  will,  for  my  sake,  be 
a  friend  to  you.  And  he  will  soon  love  you  for  your  own  sake.  I 
have  written  this  out  of  my  own  wish  and  desire  to  do  you  good. 
Francesca  loves  you  continually  with  all  her  heart,  and  I  am  your 
sincere  friend,  LOIDA  VYNER." 

In  the  wavering  condition  of  his  mind,  this  letter  was 
like  an  anchor  to  Lancelot.  He  took  it  for  a  sign,  and 
accepted  at  once  the  destiny  it  should  lead  him  to.  For 
it  appeared  strange  that  two  circumstances  so  different 
as  the  need  of  cotton  and  Miss  Loida's  desire  to  help 
him  should  both  point  out  this  same  country  to  him. 
Surely  there  was  some  higher  indication  than  mere  chance 
in  such  a  double  leading. 

Miss  Loida's  letter  was  followed  by  one  announcing 
the  success  of  his  lawyer  regarding  the  two  thousand 
pounds  he  wanted ;  and  now  the  gate  was  opened,  and 
the  road  cleared  for  his  journey.  His  preparations  were 
otherwise  perfect;  he  had  only  to  bid  "farewell"  to 
his  mother,  and  write  his  last  letter  to  Francesca.  Mar- 
tha Leigh  knew  well  that,  this  point  had  been  reached ; 


1 64  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR, 

but,  suffer  as  she  might,  she  would  die  ere  she  would 
show  the  knowledge  affected  her. 

Though  not  a  word  had  been  said  on  the  subject, 
she  was  aware,  on  the  morning  of  Lancelot's  departure, 
that  they  were  to  eat  their  last  breakfast  together.  A 
tenderness  she  neither  admitted  nor  denied  led  her  to 
set  the  table  with  unusual  care,  and  to  make  the  dishes 
her  son  liked  best.  She  was  drawing  her  eyelids  tight 
together,  and  setting  her  lips  firm,  the  whole  time  her 
hands  and  feet  were  busy.  It  was  bitter  hard  work  to 
keep  back  the  tears,  bitter  hard  work  to  keep  back  the 
long,  moaning  cries  that  burst  from  her  heart,  and  almost 
choked  her  in  their  impetuous  rush  to  her  lips. 

But  she  made  no  sign — the  woman  in  her  would  have 
escaped  into  the  outer  space  rather  than  do  so — no  sign, 
unless  her  specially  neat  attire  and  the  rigid  bordering 
of  the  gray-white  muslin  of  her  widow's  cap  might  be 
so  taken.  And  perhaps  Martha  Leigh  had  a  distinct 
though  dim  intention  of  this  kind  in  her 'dress ;  perhaps 
she  did  wish  Lancelot's  last  mental  picture  of  his  mother 
to  be  one  he  could  remember  with  respect.  At  any 
rate,  something  of  this  result  was  obtained ;  for  Lance- 
lot carried  with  him  wherever  he  went  this  memory  of 
a  tall,  grave,  handsome  woman  in  a  black  gown,  her 
bosom  crossed  by  white  lawn,  her  gray  hair  covered 
with  that  formal,  desolate-looking  head-gear. 

When  they  rose  from  the  breakfast-table,  Lancelot 
glanced  at  the  doors.  They  were  shut.  He  then  looked 
steadily  into  his  mother's  face,  and  her  lips  quivered, 
and  she  forced  herself  to  look  away  from  him.  He 
lifted  both  her  hands  and  held  them  a  moment.  She 
still  gazed  outward  and  remained  speechless.  He 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING.     1 6$ 

dropped  her  hands  and  took  her  to  his  breast.  He 
kissed  her  repeatedly,  and  murmured  repeatedly : 

"God  help  you,  mother!  God  help  you,  mother'. 
I  shall  never  forget  you.  Mother!  Mother!" 

Then  she  broke  utterly  down.  Lancelot  had  led  her 
to  her  chair,  and  was  going  away.  She  laid  her  head 
backward,  and  a  great  mother-cry  escaped  her  lips : 

"My  lad!  My  dear  lad!  Do  not  leave  me!  Do 
not  leave  me! " 

But  he  was  gone.  She  heard  the  outer  door  shut. 
She  heard  his  quick  footsteps  on  the  gravel.  She  felt 
as  if  her  heart  was  torn  in  two ;  felt  all  the  physical 
agony  of  the  soul-parting.  It  was  worse  than  death. 
Her  women,  coming  to  look  for  her  an  hour  afterward, 
found  her  sitting  like  a  stone  in  her  chair,  upright  by 
sheer  force  of  will,  conscious  by  sheer  force  of  will, 
white  as  a  corpse,  and  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  as  if  tears 
had  turned  to  stone  in  them. 

"  You  be  sick,  mistress  ?  "  said  one  woman,  touching 
her  almost  with  fear. 

Then  she  made  an  effort  to  speak — a  supreme  effort 
— which  only  succeeded  in  dragging  from  the  prostrate 
soul  a  few  words,  disconnected  and  hardly  articulate : 

"  No — my  son — gone !  " 

They  carried  her  to  a  couch  and  gave  her  brandy 
and  began  to  softly  chafe  her  hands  and  feet,  and  so  a 
dead  sleep  fell  upon  the  wretched  woman  and  she  forgot 
for  a  little  time  her  misery  and  her  despair— or,  at  least, 
flesh  and  blood  were  at  rest,  but  the  soul  has  potentiali- 
ties of  suffering  no  sleep  dulls.  Who  has  not  suffered 
in  the  mysterious  travel  of  dreams  agonies  of  which 
their  waking  bodies  were  incapable  ?  Vague  terrors  of 


1 66  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

nameless  things  ;  sense  of  loss  irreparable  ;  visions  that 
would  blind  their  mortal  eyes ;  yea,  and  also  consolations 
ineffable,  inconceivable,  unspeakable. 

Martha  Leigh  slept,  but  her  soul  waked,  and  when, 
after  hours  of  apparent  oblivion,  she  rose  up  with  a  great 
sigh  and  feebly  walked  across  the  room  to  her  own 
chair,  she  was  a  much  older  woman.  Whatever  experi- 
ences she  had  had  in  her  sleep,  they  had  not  been  void 
or  misunderstood.  She  came  back  to  life  like  a  woman 
chidden  by  Mighty  Powers.  For  it  is  truly  in  the  night 
season,  when  deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man,  that  God 
punishes  and  admonishes.  It  is — 

"...  In  quiet  silence,  when  the  night  is  in  the  midst  of  her 
swift  course,  the  Almighty  Word  leaps  down  from  heaven,  and 
suddenly  visions  of  terrible  dreams  trouble  the  wicked  sore,  and 
terrors  come  upon  them  unlocked  for  ...  lest  they  should  perish, 
and  not  know  why  they  were  afflicted."  * 

Martha  Leigh  knew  at  that  hour  why  she  was  afflicted, 
but,  alas!  knowledge  is  not  penitence.  Weary  and 
suffering,  she  was  also  resentful.  Too  weak  and  con- 
fused yet  to  argue  out  her  own  case,  she  felt  sure  of  its 
justice ;  and  if  she  deferred  to  a  fitter  time  her  plea, 
it  was  because  she  was  confident  of  making  it  then 
stronger  and  juster. 

The  great  fact  remained,  however,  in  spite  of  all  pleas 
— Lancelot  was  gone.  But  she  positively  refused  to 
think  of  him  as  gone  for  any  great  length  of  time.  He 
would  be  back  in  a  few  months.  That  girl  at  Atherton 
Court — if  all  other  considerations  failed — would  bring 
him  home  again. 

*  Wisdom  of  Solomon,  xviii.  14-19. 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING.     167 

In  the  meantime  Lancelot  was  nearing  Liverpool. 
The  bark  he  was  to  sail  in  was  nearly  ready  for  sea ;  he 
had  only  to  make  a  few  purchases  and  write  farewell  to 
Francesca.  He  delayed  this  letter  until  the  last  hour. 
He  had  granted  himself  this  privilege — not  to  give  her 
up  while  he  remained  in  England.  As  he  went  to  the 
ship,  he  posted  the  letter.  A  middle-aged  woman  no- 
ticed the  handsome  youth  drop  it  into  the  irrevocable 
box,  and  she  pitied  the  look  of  misery  with  which  he 
walked  away.  She  comprehended  his  despair,  and  said 
a  soft  "God  help  the  lad!"  as  he  passed  out  of  her 
sight.  Lancelot  would  have  been  comforted  by  her 
prayer  and  pity,  had  he  known  it ;  but  it  is  one  of  the 
misfortunes  of  existence  that  society  compels  us  to  re- 
strain sympathy  unless  we  have  a  bond  and  right  to 
offer  it.  Every  one  is  thus  poorer  by  many  a  kindly  wish 
and  many  an  honest  prayer. 

Driven  like  a  blind  man  before  his  sorrowful  destiny, 
Lancelot  reached  the  ship  and  crossed  the  narrow  plank, 
and  felt  himself  already  adrift  from  every  hope  and  joy 
that  had  made  his  youth  so  blessed ;  and  he  could  not 
avoid  a  passion  of  regret  for  those  past  years  that 
would  never  return.  Amid  falling  shades  and  a  wind 
like  the  Banshee  they  were  driven  down  the  Mersey. 
The  thick-coated  murmur  of  the  river  blending  with  the 
great  complaining  of  the  distant  sea  came  through  the 
darkness,  and  the  hoarse,  melancholy  voices  of  the 
sailors  went  with  it.  He  was  utterly  wretched  and  hope- 
less, bruised  in  heart  and  brain,  but  an  act  so  vulgar  and 
cowardly  as  suicide  never  occurred  to  him.  The  vestal 
fires  of  conscience,  of  pure  love,  of  honor  and  integrity 
still  burned  within  him. 


1 68  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Sitting  alone  on  the  edge  of  his  rough  berth  he  told 
himself  that,  even  if  his  life  should  be  a  tragedy  of 
never-fulfilled  desires  and  vain  strivings,  and  of  final 
suffering  and  death,  he  could  at  least  make  it  a  noble 
tragedy — a  tragedy  fit  for  the  angel  "  cloud  of  witnesses  " 
to  contemplate.  So,  though  he  knew  it  not,  he  was  re- 
ceiving the  grandest  education  of  which  humanity  is 
capable — the  education  that  comes  by  reverence  and  by 
sorrow  ;  for  these  are  the  teachers  greater  than  Gamaliel, 
and  blessed  are  they  who  can  sit  at  their  feet. 

It  is  always  impossible  to  say  how  far  the  change  in 
one  life  may  affect  other  lives.  Lancelot's  voluntary 
expatriation  was  the  cause  of  unforeseen  and  very  im- 
portant changes  in  the  hitherto  placid  routine  of  Ather- 
ton  Court.  The  squire  had  been  dallying  with  an  inten- 
tion to  enter  Parliament,  and  Francesca's  despondency 
after  her  receipt  of  Lancelot's  farewell  letter  made  him 
decide  in  favor  of  such  a  course.  His  own  influence 
and  that  of  a  neighboring  earl  were  sufficient  to  insure 
his  election  without  any  great  expense  or  trouble,  and 
he  was  possessed  by  the  usual  idea  that  love  could  be 
cured  by  a  change  of  scene  and  a  gay  social  life. 

But  when  he  proposed  to  rent  a  house  in  London  and 
take  Miss  Vyner  and  Francesca  there  for  the  season,  he 
found  that  he  had  at  least  reckoned  without  his  house- 
hold. Miss  Vyner — who  was  daily  feeling  more  sure  of 
Dick  Alderson's  return — very  calmly  but  very  resolutely 
declined  the  London  season;  and  Francesca  was  still 
more  positive  in  her  determination  to  remain  at  home. 
She  declared  herself  "  too  sick  to  go  into  society ;  all 
she  wished  was  to  be  still  and  not  to  talk." 

So  the  squire,  with  all  his  own  unacknowledged  reluc- 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING.     169 

tance  to  political  and  social  life,  was  compelled  to  enter 
it  alone.  Francesca  made  a  sad  little  joke  of  his  scheme 
and  its  failure : 

"  You  planned  so  many  engagements  for  Loida  and 
me,  dear  father,  and  now  you  will  have  them  to  fulfil 
yourself.  Loida,  will  you  fancy  Squire  Atherton  in  a 
court  costume,  or  wearing  his  militia  uniform,  or  a  black 
swallow-tail  dress-coat  ?  " 

And  the  squire  answered : 

"  I  shall  wear  my  own  fashions,  Francesca — thou  may 
be  sure  of  that ;  "  and  there  was  some  faint  merriment 
about  it  all,  but  in  the  end  the  squire  went  alone  and 
very  sadly  to  London  and  to  Parliament. 

But  as  it  often  happens,  the  lonely  man  was  quickly 
introduced  to  some  charming  people,  and  then  he  be- 
came quite  enamored  of  social  pleasures.  Every  letter 
received  at  Atherton  was  a  gayer  one.  Lords  and 
ladies,  great  men  and  beautiful  women,  flitted  across  the 
pages ;  and  there  was  specially  frequent  mention  made 
of  a  Mrs.  Mott,  an  American  lady  of  wealth  and  fashion. 

Loida  began  to  ponder  this  circumstance.  She  said 
nothing  to  Francesca ;  for  Francesca  was  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  love  affair  to  imagine  any  other  pos- 
sible. Yet  Loida  thought  it  possible.  The  squire  was 
a  very  handsome  man,  in  the  prime  of  life.  His  rustic- 
ity had  imparted  an  idea  of  years  which  did  not  belong- 
to  him.  She  could  imagine  him  fashionably  dressed 
and  exceedingly  attractive ;  for  his  simple,  straightfor- 
ward, courteous 'nature  could  hardly  fail  to  be  delight- 
ful, because  it  was  so  perfectly  natural. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  squire's  gay  letters,  the  winter  at 
Atherton  Court  went  past  very  dully.  The  hunting  and 


170  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

the  hunt  dinners  and  balls  had  hitherto  broken  the  mo- 
notony of  its  winter  life.  The  ladies  had  supposed  these 
breaks  would  not  be  missed,  but  Loida  missed  them. 
She  admitted  to  herself  that  the  winter  was  long,  very 
long  and  weary.  She  wished  often  that  her  brother-in- 
law  had  never  gone  to  London  ;  she  had  a  presentiment 
that  change  had  only  begun,  and  she  could  not  help 
asking  wistfully :  "  Where  will  it  end  ?  " 

At  last,  at  last,  the  spring  came!  Everything  is  pos- 
sible in  spring-time.  When  the  tulips  and  jonquils  pushed 
their  bright  leaves  through  the  brown  earth,  Loida  began 
to  watch,  to  listen,  to  dress  herself  for  the  hope  in  her 
heart.  And  how  sweet  a  thing  is  hope!  We  may  ac- 
knowledge that  Hope  is  the  brother  of  Fear,  and  only 
the  merrier  fool  of  the  two ;  but  it  is  at  least  good  to 
have  the  company  of  the  merry  one.  Even  Francesca 
lifted  her  drooping  head  a  little,  and  suffered  the  sun- 
shine to  fall  upon  her  white  face.  She  had  not  heard  a 
word  of  Lancelot,  and  Loida  had  not  heard  a  word  of 
Dick,  but  when  the  swallows  came  back  from  over  the 
sea,  it  seemed  natural  to  hope  that  some  message  would 
follow  them.  Francesca  often  looked  longingly  at  their 
swift,  scythe-like  wings,  and  said  to  her  heart :  "  Oh, 
that  I  had  wings  like  a  swallow,  then  I  would  fly  away 
and  search  the  whole  world  over  for  Lancelot ! " 

Never  had  the  Court  looked  fairer  than  it  did  that 
Maytime.  The  clematis  arbor  was  darkly  green,  and 
the  scent  of  a  hundred  flowers  and  herbs  was  in  the  air. 
There  were  birds  building  everywhere ;  the  men  were 
whistling  in  the  fields,  the  women  singing  through  the 
house  as  they  threw  open  the  long-closed  casements  and 
hung  the  rooms  with  snowy  draperies. 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARD  Y  BLESSING.     I  7  I 

But  May  is  not  all  sunshine  and  flowers ;  one  morn- 
ing, about  the  middle  of  the  month,  it  was  very  chilly 
and  raining  heavily.  The  ladies  came  late  downstairs, 
and  they  eat  their  breakfast  without  much  conversation. 
The  drip  of  the  rain  was  monotonous  and  mournful. 
The  "  chirp,"  "  chirp  "  of  the  birds  had  a  fretful,  put- 
out-of-the-way  sound.  There  was  no  mail  but  a  letter 
from  the  squire  to  Miss  Loida ;  a  very  long  letter,  from 
which  there  fell  some  architectural  plan.  Francesca 
glanced  at  it  with  a  little  curiosity,  and  Miss  Loida  an- 
swered the  glance : 

"  It  is  a  plan  for  an  orchid-house,"  she  said. 

"  Whatever  can  father  want  with  an  orchid-house  f  " 

"  I  will  read  his  letter,  and  then  we  shall  understand." 

The  letter,  however,  did  not  appear  to  be  satisfactory. 
Miss  Loida  turned  it  over  and  backward,  and  was  cer- 
tainly much  embarrassed,  and  Francesca,  with  some  im- 
patience, asked: 

"  What  is  it  all  about,  Aunt  Loida  ? " 

"  My  dear — I  hardly  know  what  to  say  to  you.  Do 
you  recollect  how  much  your  father  has  written  lately 
about  Mrs.  Mott,  the  American  lady,  who  is  so  much 
admired  in  London  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Is  she  coming  here  ?  " 

"  I  think  she  is  coming  here." 

"  How  dreadful!  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  visit- 
ors. I  hope  she  will  not  stay  long." 

"  I  am  sure,  my  dear — I  do  not  know  how  to  tell 
you,  Francesca — your  father  has  married  her." 

"  My  father!     Married!     Loida,  that  is  impossible!  " 

"  It  is  true.  He  says  Mrs.  Mott  preferred  a  quiet 
wedding.  They  are  gone  to  Paris  for  a  few  weeks. 


i;2  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

She  wants  the  orchid-house  built,  and  your  father  has 
written  to  a  man  in  Drayton  to  come  here  and  attend 
to  the  building  of  it.     He  will  probably  be  here  to-day." 
"  How  cruel!      How  wrong  of  father! " 
"  No,  my  dear.     Your  father  has  as  much  right  to 
marry  as  you  have.     If  you  had  loved  him  alone,  he 
would  have  been  faithful  to  you,  no  doubt." 
"  How  could  I  help  loving  Lancelot?" 
"  Perhaps  your  father  could  not  help  loving  this  charm- 
ing  American.     Francesca,  you  have  yourself  to  blame. 
You  fret  so  continually  about  Lancelot  that  it  appeared 
necessary  for  your  health  and   life  to  do  something. 
Your  father  went  to  Parliament,  hoping  to  take  you  with 
him  to  London.     You  would  neither  be  happy  at  home 
nor  yet  go  with  him  to  London.     My  dear,  the  best  of 
men,  the  tenderest  of  fathers,  grow  weary  of  sorrow  that 
will  not  be  comforted." 

"  Father  is  an  old  man.    The  idea  of  him  marrying! " 
"He  is  a  very  handsome  man,  in  the  prime  of  life. 
The  idea  of  his  marriage  is  not  mdre  absurd  than  the 
idea  of  your  marriage." 

"  Aunt  Loida,  how  can  old  people  be  in  love  ?  " 
"  They  love  better,  they  love  less  selfishly,  they  love 
more  wisely  than  the  very  young  love.  And  all  people 
over  twenty  years  of  age  are  not  old.  I  have  no  doubt 
your  father  has  made  a  wise  choice ;  no  doubt  whatever 
that  Mrs.  Atherton  is  a  charming,  lovable  woman ;  and 
if  I  were  you,  Francesca,  I  should  meet  her  on  that  pre- 
sumption. Of  course,  there  must  be  other  changes. 
That  is  always  the  case,  for  one  change  brings  an- 
other.  I  shall  now  leave  this  house,  and  go  to  my  own 
house." 


GOD   BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING.     173 

"Aunt  Loida,  if  you  leave,  I  shall  leave  also.  Let 
me  go  with  you." 

"  Your  movements  must  depend  upon  your  father's 
will,  Francesca.  Do  you  remember  what  a  little  fret  I 
had  the  other  day,  because  my  house  was  not  rented 
this  year  ?  You  see  now  that  it  is  a  fortunate  thing.  I 
can  go  directly  to  it." 

"  May  I  not  live  with  you  ? " 

"  Such  a  step  would  look  like  deserting  your  father, 
and  it  would  surely  prejudice  all  the  country-side  against 
your  stepmother.  But  you  can  make  me  long  visits." 

"  Things  go  very  hard  with  me,  Loida.  If  Lancelot 
were  only  here,  I  should  not  care." 

"You  condemn  yourself,  and  excuse  your  father's 
marriage — if  it  needs  excuse — by  that  very  remark. 
You  mean  that  if  Lancelot  were  here  you  would  be 
indifferent  as  to  whether  your  father  married  or  not  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  do  mean  that  ?  " 

"  If  you  care  more  for  Lancelot  than  for  your  father, 
then  why  should  not  your  father  care  more  for  Mrs. 
Mott  than  for  you?  Let  us  be  fair,  Francesca." 

"  Father  has  treated  you  badly,  also,  Loida." 

"  No,  he  has  not.  Your  father  knew  that  as  soon  as 
Dick  Alderson  came  home,  I  should  marry  Dick  and 
leave  him.  Love  asks  its  equivalent.  No  love  abides 
that  is  on  one  side  only.  Come,  my  dear,  do  not  fret. 
Let  us  go  to  my  room  and  consider  things  calmly  and 
kindly.  There  are  some  preparations  to  make  for  the 
bride." 

"  I  will  not  talk  about  any  bride.  I  wish  I  knew 
where  Lancelot  was." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  the  room  and  said : 


174  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  There  is  a  person  to  see  you,  Miss  Vyner.  I  put 
him  in  Squire  Atherton's  office." 

"Who  is  it,  Sarah?" 

"  I  have  never  seen  the  person  before,  miss." 

"  He  can  come  in  here,  Francesca,  can  he  not  ?  " 

"  No,  he  cannot,  Loida.  I  have  a  bad  headache,  and 
he  will  be  talking  about  glass  and  measurements  and 
steam  heat,  and  such  things,  until  I  am  half  crazy." 

"To  be  sure,  it  is  the  man  from  Drayton.  I  had 
forgotten.  It  is  the  orchid-house,  of  course.  Sarah, 
tell  him  I  will  see  him  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  talked  a  little  longer  with  Francesca,  and  then, 
with  the  "  plan  "  and  the  letter  of  directions  in  her  hand, 
went  to  see  the  builder  and  discuss  the  arrangements 
with  him.  She  was  much  depressed,  in  spite  of  the 
calm,  reasonable  way  in  which  she  had  taken  the  news 
of  the  squire's  marriage.  The  idea  of  a  total  change  of 
life  was  not  pleasant  to  Loida.  Her  heart  fell  fathoms 
deep  after  she  had  left  Francesca,  and  she  slowly  walked 
through  the  long  and  somewhat  intricate  passages  lead- 
ing to  the  squire's  office.  The  Court  had  become  home 
to  her.  She  dreaded  the  idea  of  making  another  home. 
And  she  had  grown  a  little  despairing  about  Dick.  She 
would  not  acknowledge  the  feeling,  but  it  was  there ; 
and  somehow  this  discussion  with  a  stranger  about  a 
fancy  of  the  new  mistress  pained  her.  She  could  not 
help  feeling  that  Rashleigh  Atherton  had  been  a  little 
selfish  for  his  bride.  She  controlled  herself  better  than 
Francesca,  but  the  thoughts  of  both  women  weie  equally 
bitter. 

Loida  was  always  reserved,  and  her  manner  with 
social  inferiors  had  distinctly  an  air  of  pride.  She  en. 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TAK^Y  BLESSING,     175 

tered  the  office  quite  conscious  of  this  feeling,  accentu- 
ated by  a  sense  that  the  discussion  was  disagreeable  to 
her.  There  was  a  large  painting  in  oils  of  the  squire 
in  hunting  costume  over  the  chimney-piece,  and  the 
man  stood  on  the  hearth  looking  up  at  it.  His  back 
was  to  the  door,  but  he  turned  quickly  as  Loida  entered. 
She  looked  at  him.  Then  she  uttered  a  shrill  cry — a 
cry  of  joy,  of  delight,  of  amazement : 

"Dick!    Dick!     O  Dick!  Dick!     Home  at  last!  " 

With  the  words  on  her  lips,  she  reached  his  arms. 
She  could  not  have  told  how ;  she  only  knew  she  was 
there,  and  that  the  knowledge  filled  her  being  with  a 
delicious  content.  The  fruit  so  hardly  tended  for  ten 
years  was  ripe — was  on  their  lips,  and  all  its  sweetness 
realized.  For  some  moments  there  were  no  questions 
and  no  explanations.  It  was  joy  sufficient  to  be  to- 
gether again.  No  doubt  of  Dick's  worthiness  troubled 
the  meeting.  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  ring,  made 
like  a  forget-me-not.  The  flower  was  the  ornament ; 
its  golden  stem  was  turned  into  a  circle  for  the  finger. 

"  I  have  worn  it  over  my  heart  for  ten  years,  Loida," 
he  said.  "  Will  you  take  it  from  me  again,  dearest? " 

"  Dick,  forgive  me  for  ever  removing  it.  Let  me 
have  it  once  more,  love,  and  not  even  in  death  will  I 
resign  it." 

"  I  have  won  the  right  to  re-offer  it,  Loida.  The  task 
is  finished.  I  have  brought  with  me  money  sufficient  to 
pay  the  uttermost  farthing,  and  a  little  over,  dear,  for 
our  own  use.  I  have  sent  word  to  every  one  I  owe  to 
meet  me  in  the  bank  parlor  in  ten  days.  After  that 
meeting,  Loida,  need  we  wait  longer  ?  " 

With  the  sweetest  frankness  she  surrendered  all  to  his 


176  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

will.  And  they  talked  of  the  glad  future  in  that  con- 
fused,  hurried  way  which  is  natural  to  those  who  love 
and  meet  after  a  long  absence.  There  was  so  much  to 
tell,  nothing  could  be  told  in  detail.  Their  whole  con- 
versation was  only  like  a  table  of  "  contents."  It  named 
the  incidents,  or  the  expectations,  or  indicated  the  plans 
and  hopes  of  the  coming  years ;  no  more.  So  that 
nothing  serious  or  final  was  arrived  at,  and  the  hours 
went  by  in  saying  little  more  than : 

"  How  lovely  you  have  grown,  Loida ! " 

"  How  handsome  and  brave-looking  you  are,  Dick! " 

"  How  happy  we  are ! " 

"  How  good  it  is  to  live! " 

"  How  good  to  do  right ! " 

All  Dick's  adventures,  and  what  he  had  seen,  and 
what  he  had  done,  and  the  money  he  had  saved,  and 
the  love  and  gratitude  in  his  heart,  and  the  ways  of  the 
future — all  these  things  were  but  touched  with  a  ques- 
tion. Was  there  not  all  their  lives  long  to  talk  about 
them? 

Finally,  Loida  remembered  Francesca,  and  they  went 
to  find  her.  She  had  gone  upstairs ;  she  was  weeping 
bitterly. 

"  She  wished  now  she  had  never  seen  Lancelot ! 
What  trouble  there  had  been  since  he  came  that  day  to 
Atherton!  What  changes  were  following  him!  He 
had  set  a  door  open,  and  so  many  sorrows  had  come 
through  it.  Oh,  if  she  had  only  been  a  poor  girl,  Lan- 
celot would  have  taken  her  with  him!"  And  then  she 
cried  out,  with  a  fresh  bitterness :  "  Father  also  is  desert- 
ing me!  He  promised  to  find  out  where  Lancelot  had 
gone,  and  he  has  not  done  so.  He  can  think  of  orchid- 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING.     177 

houses,  and  of  getting  married ;  he  can  think  so  much 
for  his  new  wife  that  he  forgets  his  poor  little  daughter,, 
though  her  heart  is  breaking !  " 

In  her  passionate  complaining  she  did  not  even  notice 
the  joy  in  her  aunt's  face  and  manner.  Her  own  sor- 
row so  engrossed  her  perceptions  that  she  had  no  intelli- 
gence for  another's  happiness,  and  no  sympathy  with  it. 
Loida  felt  chilled  by  this  selfish  absorption,  and  she  said,, 
with  some  decision : 

"  Francesca,  you  are  very  unjust  to  every  one.  Are 
you  the  only  woman  that  has  ever  suffered  ?  You  know 
well  that  your  father  did  everything  possible  to  redeem 
his  promise  to  you.  He  wrote  to  Lancelot's  mother, 
and  he  got  what  answer  back?  'Thou  knows  as  much 
as  I  do.' '  He  wrote  to  Lancelot's  lawyer,  and  was  told 
that  his  client's  destination  was  unknown  to  him ;  that 
he  had  been  instructed,  when  the  Atherton  Mill  was  sold, 
to  deposit  the  price  of  it  at  Ball  Moser's  bank,  Liver- 
pool. Then  he  wrote  to  the  bank,  and  was  told  that 
the  name  of  Lancelot  Leigh  was  not  on  any  of  their 
books.  What  more  could  he  do  ?  " 

"  If  this  Mrs.  Mott  had  disappeared,  he  would  likely 
have  found  out  something  else  to  do." 

"  Francesca,  do  you  not  see  that  sometning  has  made 
me  very,  very  happy  ?  " 

Then  the  girl  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow  and 
looked  at  her  aunt. 

"Why,  Loida!"  she  cried.  "What  has  happened? 
Has  Lancelot  come  ? "  And  she  leaped  to  her  feet  and 
her  face  was  transfigured  with  joy  and  hope. 

"  Dick  has  come!    Only  Dick." 

"Oh,  dear!    Oh,  Aunt  Loida,  how  could  you  startle 


178  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

and  disappoint  me  so  cruelly  ?  I  thought  it  was  Lan- 
celot. Forgive  me,  aunt,  I  am  disgracefully  selfish.  I 
am  a  bad  girl.  I  cannot  feel  happy  with  you.  You 
ought  to  hate  me." 

"  My  darling,  I  pity  you  most  truly.  I  know  how 
you  feel.  I  have  felt  something  like  it,  often,  only  I 
managed  not  to  show  it.  Come  and  see  Dick.  Come, 
it  will  do  you  good." 

"  Has  he  seen  Lancelot  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Yet  you  wrote  and  told  Lancelot  to  go  to  the 
mines  where  Dick  was." 

"  Dick  had  left  them  a  year  ago." 

"  Oh,  why  ?  Why  did  he  leave  them  ?  Everything 
goes  against  Lancelot." 

"  Come  down  and  see  Dick.     It  will  do  you  good." 

"  I  would  rather  not,  Aunt  Loida.  I  am  so  miserable, 
I  should  spoil  your  pleasure.  But,  indeed,  I  am  glad 
Dick  has  come.  I  look  selfish,  but  I  do  not  feel  so. 
Leave  me  alone  a  little ;  I  will  try  and  come  to  you  in 
an  hour  or  two." 

After  all,  is  there  any  of  the  apostolic  precepts  harder 
than  that  which  bids  us  "  rejoice  with  them  that  do  re- 
joice  "  ?  The  joy,  the  fame,  the  wealth  that  is  not  ours 
offends.  To  weep  with  those  that  weep,  to  play  patron 
and  comforter — these  are  offices  highly  congenial  to  the 
most  selfish.  But  the  gracious  benignity  which  can  re- 
joice with  those  who  do  rejoice,  which  can  praise  the 
worthy  without  a  secret  hatred,  and  respect  the  honestly 
wealthy  without  a  cleaving  envy,  is  a  much  rarer  virtue ; 
and  only  those  possess  it  who  are  the  beloved  of  God — 
men  and  women  after  God's  own  heart. 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARDY  BLESSING,     179 

Loida  felt  hurt  and  depressed  by  the  want  of  Fran- 
cesca's  sympathy,  and  yet  the  suffering  girl  was  not 
entirely  to  blame.  She  was  enduring  that  most  absorb- 
ing  and  distracting  form  of  sorrow — a  grief  that  was  not 
sure,  that  was  doubled  by  its  mystery  and  its  hopeless- 
ness. If  Lancelot  had  dared  to  make  her  know  the 
whole  truth,  she  would  doubtless  have  borne  it  as  bravely 
as  himself.  But  to  be  told  by  a  piece  of  paper  that 
they  must  part  forever ;  to  be  told  she  must  forget  her 
lover,  and  no  reason  for  forgetfulness  given ;  to  be  left 
without  any  personal  farewell;  to  be  left  in  absolute 
ignorance  of  his  destination,  without  any  promise  for  the 
future — was  a  situation  devoid  of  comfort,  unless  she 
could  find  in  pride  or  in  anger  the  strength  to  confront 
it.  Francesca  had  no  pride  where  Lancelot  was  con- 
cerned,  and  to  be  angry  with  him  long  was  for  her  im- 
possible. 

Nor  was  she  indifferent  to  the  coming  of  a  new  mis- 
tress to  Atherton  Court.  Hitherto  she  had  been  the 
power  behind  all  other  powers.  Her  will  had  been  law, 
she  had  been  virtually  the  lady  of  the  manor.  There 
was  another  power  coming  now ;  a  power  that  had  an 
evil  reputation.  To  lose  her  lover  was  one  kind  of 
trouble ;  to  get  a  stepmother  was  another  kind.  She 
felt  as  if  her  father  was  already  a  stepfather.  As  soon 
as  she  was  silent  and  sorrowful,  as  soon  as  she  made  the 
house  dull,  he  had  gone  away  and  found  another  to 
amuse  and  comfort  him.  That  was  the  way  she  looked 
at  the  squire's  action,  and,  of  course,-  if  she  was  right, 
the  squire  was  wrong. 

Toward  evening  she  went  downstairs  and  saw  Dick', 
and  Dick  pleased  her  very  much.  He  talked  with  her 


180  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

about  Lancelot  and  offered  to  write  to  the  mines  and 
see  if  he  was  there.  He  promised  to  inclose  a  letter 
which  Francesca  would  write.  He  assured  her  that,  if 
Lancelot  had  reached  the  mines,  General  Bias,  who  was 
now  the  superintendent,  would  find  him  out  and  deliver 
her  letter.  He  told  her  that  it  was  utterly  impossible 
for  Lancelot  to  forget  her ;  he  knew,  he  said,  by  his  own 
experience.  Lancelot  would  be  compelled  to  return  and 
see  her — or  die. 

And  love  believes  whatever  love  wants  to  believe. 
Dick  was  so  sympathetic,  so  hopeful,  so  sorry  for  Fran- 
cesca, that  she  found  herself  talking  freely  before  him. 
He  entered  into  her  grief ;  he  put  it  into  such  expressive 
words ;  he  saw  so  many  ways  out  of  it.  No  one  had 
ever  comforted  her  as  Dick  did.  For  this  was  the  man's 
nature,  his  gift,  his  power,  the  attribute  which  had  made 
him  prosperous.  He  was  a  son  of  consolation. 

"  And  he  is  really  quite  handsome,  Loida,"  said  Fran- 
cesca, as  they  sat  alone,  talking,  that  night.  "  He  has 
a  fine  figure,  too,  and  such  gentle  ways.  But  what  a 
pity  you  did  not  know  he  was  coming.  You  have  not 
been  so  unbecomingly  dressed  for  a  long^  time  as  you 
were  this  morning,  Loida.  And  then,  to  think  he  was  a 
man  to  build  an  orchid-house!  When  one  waits  ten 
years  for  a  lover,  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  more  ro- 
mantic meeting." 

All  this  was  very  true,  and  Loida  could  not  avoid  a 
sigh  at  the  contradiction  of  small  events.  Every  other 
morning,  for  a  long  time,  she  had  put  on  some  pretty 
chintz  or  muslin  gown.  That  morning  it  had  been  so 
dark  and  wet,  and  she  had  felt  so  despairing,  "  what  was 
the  good  of  it  ?  "  And  though  she  had  imagined  Dick's 


GOD  BRINGS    THE    TARD  Y  BLESSING.      1 8 1 

return  in  many  a  different  way,  it  had  never  entered  her 
mind  to  suppose  he  might  come  to  the  house  as  some 
person  on  business,  and  she  go  to  meet  him,  feeling  a 
little  cross  at  the  obligation,  and  consciously  assuming 
the  manner  which,  least  of  all,  she  would  knowingly  have 
met  her  long-absent  lover  with.  All  her  ideal  plans  and 
expectations  had  been  made  vain  by  blunt  reality.  She 
had  looked  entirely  different  to  what  she  had  intended  to 
look.  She  had  worn  the  least  pretty  of  all  her  dresses ; 
she  had  been  almost  embarrassed  in  her  welcome ;  in- 
deed,  she  had  repeated  over  and  over  the  same  words. 
Fate  is  full  of  such  contradictions.  One  would  think 
she  loved  to  dash  the  cup  of  joy  she  could  not  longer 
delay.  So  Loida  sighed  and  was  a  little  sorry  for  her 
own  disappointment,  though  she  said : 

"  If  the  heart  be  true  and  good,  does  the  body  mat- 
ter ? " 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  does,  aunt.  I  remember  the  moment 
I  first  saw  Lancelot  coming  up  the  terrace-steps,  singing, 
in  the  sunshine.  His  bare  head  and  handsome  face,  his 
fine  figure,  his  air  of  happiness,  and  his  voice,  like  a 
voice  out  of  heaven,  took  all  my  senses  captive.  If  he 
had  been  little  and  ugly  and  badly  dressed,  and  had  had 
a  disagreeable  voice,  do  you  think  I  should  have  fallen 
in  love  with  his  good  heart  f  I  am  afraid  not.  And  do 
you  think  my  father  would  have  cared  for  Mrs.  Mott's 
cleverness  and  good  temper,  if  she  had  not  been,  in  his 
opinion,  'the  prettiest,  brightest  little  woman  in  the 
whole  world '  ? " 

"  And  do  you  not  think,  Francesca,  that  it  will  be  a 
great  thing  to  have  '  the  prettiest,  brightest  woman  in 
the  whole  world '  at  Atherton  Court  ?  " 


1 82  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  It  is  so  easy  for  you  to  ask  that  question  now,  Loida. 
You  are  not  going  to  live  at  Atherton  Court."  . 

"  That  is  true.  When  your  father  comes  home,  I 
shall  go  to  Alderson  Bars  to  live." 

"  So  '  the  prettiest  and  brightest '  will  not  put  you  in 
the  shade.  You  will  not  have  a  stepmother  at  Alder- 
son  Bars." 

"  Francesca,  I  shall  have  a  mother-in-law." 

"  But  suppose — " 

"  My  darling,  we  will  '  suppose '  no  more  to-night. 
We  ought  to  be  asleep." 

"  I  cannot  sleep.     I  shall  go  on  '  supposing.'  " 

"Then,"  said  Loida,  as  she  stood,  smiling,  at  Fran- 
cesca's  door,  "  here  is  a  problem  for  your  suppositions : 

"  '  Supposing  I  were  you ; 
Supposing  you  were  me ; 
Supposing  each  were  somebody  else, 
I  wonder  who  we  should  bet '" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

FORTUNATE  GOLD  AND  SORROWFUL  LOVE. 

"  Clear  shining  after  rain." 

"  Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound." 

THE  north  of  England  was  at  this  time  like  the 
prophet's  roll — written  within  and  without  with 
desolations  and  mourning  and  woe.  The  total  dearth 
of  cotton,  the  closing  of  the  great  Lancashire  and  York- 
shire factories,  the  consequent  idleness  of  an  immense 
population  fit  for  no  other  kind  of  work,  the  famine  and 
nakedness  and  pestilence  which  no  private  nor  yet  na- 
tional charity  could  far  assuage,  made  a  terrible  total  of 
sectional  misery. 

But  there  was,  at  least,  a  speedy  hope  of  peace.  Dick 
was  sure  that  a  few  months — a  year  at  the  utmost — 
must  finally  cripple  the  Rebellion.  There  would  be  a 
superabundance  of  cotton ;  then  the  great  chimneys 
would  smoke  once  more,  and  the  noise  of  the  spinning- 
looms  make  again  that  giant  "  hum "  of  labor,  which 
would  be  a  song  of  rejoicing  to  the  thousands  ready  to 
perish. 

The  squire  was  not  at  this  time  seriously  troubled 
about  these  matters.  He  was  traveling  on  the  con- 
tinent with  his  bride,  and  the  bright,  bewitching  Mrs. 
Atherton  made  items  for  the  newspapers  in  whatever 
capital  they  happened  to  be  visiting.  In  the  meantime 


1 84  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

changes  were  in  progress  at  Atherton  Court,  which 
would  bring  still  greater  changes.  The  most  evident 
was,  of  course,  Dick's  return.  This  return  implied 
many  things,  the  first  of  which  was  the  settlement  with 
his  creditors. 

The  day  before  the  one  appointed  for  this  purpose, 
Loida  and  Francesca  went  to  Alderson  Bars — Fran- 
cesca  a  little  reluctantly.  She  could  not  feel  the  inter- 
est she  wished  to  feel,  and  would  have  been  glad  to 
remain  at  Atherton  alone,  to  brood  over  her  sorrow. 
But  Loida  was  anxious  to  show  her  both  Alderson  Bars 
and  Vyner  Hall.  It  was  not  yet  certain  which  place  was 
to  be  the  future  home  of  Dick  and  herself.  Loida, 
with  a  beautiful  generosity,  insisted  on  their  living  with 
Dick's  mother.  She  told  Dick  it  would  be  cruel  to  go 
away  from  her.  No  other  woman  had  so  much  de- 
served the  joy  of  his  constant  presence. 

But  Mrs.  Alderson  had  an  equal  generosity.  She  in- 
sisted on  the  young  people  going  to  Vyner  Hall.  She 
pointed  out  the  fact  that  the  two  places  were  only  a 
short  distance  from  each  other.  She  was  sure  they 
would  be  happier  in  their  own  home.  She  was  good 
enough  to  pretend  that  she  also  would  be  happier  to  be 
alone  in  her  home.  It  was  a  contest  of  generous  feel- 
ing, and  it  was  at  least  likely  that  age  would  be  the 
most  persistent  in  its  self-denial. 

Francesca  was  charmed  with  both  places.  Vyner 
was  a  much  smaller  place  than  Alderson,  but  its  grounds 
had  been  made  very  beautiful  by  Loida's  father,  its  pos- 
sibilities were  great,  and  it  would  not  require  many  serv- 
ants to  keep  it  in  order.  It  was  a  happy  day  at  Aider- 
son  Bars  when  Dick  once  more  crossed  its  threshold, 


FORTUNATE  GOLD.  185 

holding  Loida's  hand.  All  the  sorrows  and  labors  of 
ten  years  vanished  in  that  tread.  They  looked  into 
each  other's  eyes  and  were  satisfied.  Francesca  also 
exerted  herself  to  add  to  the  general  contentment,  and 
the  evening  was  a  very  joyous  one. 

But  the  greatest  joy  of  it  came  when  Francesca  had 
retired,  and  the  three  loving  bearers  and  toilers  for 
honor's  sake  could  sit  down  together  and  discuss  the 
eventful  meeting  of  the  next  day.  The  call  for  this 
meeting  had  created  a  sensation  throughout  the  country- 
side. When  Dick  had  made  the  promise  to  his  creditors 
ten  years  previously,  there  had  been  in  his  few  resolute 
words  something  which  inspired  belief ;  and  the  York- 
shire farmers  of  that  day  did  not  readily  give  up  an  im- 
pression. If  any  of  them  had  ever  doubted  Dick's  as- 
surance, they  now  positively  denied  the  doubt.  One  and 
all  said  they  had  been  "  as  easy  in  their  minds  as  could 
be ;  and  things  hed  happened  so,  as  showed  they  were 
about  right." 

It  was,  then,  a  pleasant  crowd  that  gathered  in  the  old 
bank.  The  building  stood  in  the  main  street  of  Tipham 
Market,  a  plain,  low  house  of  two  stories,  the  windows 
of  the  lower  one  being  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs. 
The  upper  rooms  were  inhabited  by  an  old  clerk  who 
had  been  connected  with  the  bank  from  his  boyhood. 
Everything  relating  to  its  affairs  were  in  John  Stead's 
head  and  hands.  He  knew  its  indebtedness  to  a  far- 
thing. He  had  paid  out  for  Mrs.  Alderson  every  shilling 
of  interest.  The  books  of  the  bank  were  the  pride  of 
his  life ;  he  could  show  them  balanced  to  date,  on  de- 
mand, at  any  time. 

To  this  old  man  and  his  wife  and  their  middle-aged. 


1 86  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

sons  and  daughters  the  "  clearing  up  "  of  Alderson's  bank 
was  an  affair  that  stirred  their  little  world  to  its  center. 
John  Stead  had  a  new  suit  of  black  broadcloth  made 
for  the  occasion ;  and  Mrs.  Stead  and  her  two  daugh- 
ters, having  cleaned  their  rooms  to  a  point  of  shining 
perfection,  put  on  their  best  dresses  and  sat  down  in  the 
parlor  as  if  it  was  Sunday. 

They  were  unexpectedly  rewarded.  Not  only  did 
Dick  Alderson  come  upstairs — they  expected  so  much 
of  Dick — but  Dick  brought  with  him  his  mother  and 
Miss  Vyner.  It  was  the  first  time  the  ladies  had  ever 
been  in  the  bank  rooms,  and  the  Steads  congratulated 
themselves  ever  afterward  on  their  forethought  in  having 
them  in  such  exquisite  order.  For  in  spite  of  their  pre- 
occupation with  Dick's  affairs,  both  ladies  perceived 
where  praise  would  be  delightful,  and  both  gave  it  with- 
out stint. 

Yet  they  were  listening  with  ^11  their  souls,  the  while 
they  talked  of  the  most  commonplace  matters — listening 
for  Dick's  voice,  for  he  had  promised  to  call  them  at 
a  certain  point  of  the  proceedings.  They  could  hear 
the  murmur  of  voices,  the  opening  and  shutting  of 
doors,  the  vague  stir  more  apprehended  than  real,  which 
is  never  absent  where  there  is  a  number  of  human  be- 
ings together. 

Depositors  of  small  amounts  had  been  paid  off  long, 
long  ago ;  it  was  only  those  to  whom  the  bank  owed 
large  sums  who  were  to  be  satisfied  that  day.  About 
sixty  men  were  present,  and  it  seemed  to  Loida  that  it 
took  a  very  long  time  to  give  each  man  a  check  which 
was  already  made  out.  But  as  she  was  impatiently 
listening  to  an  account  of  Miss  Margaret  Stead's  attack 


FORTUNATE   GOLD.  1 87 

of  ague,  there  was  a  sudden  sense  of  movement,  and 
then  a  loud  and  oft-repeated  cheer,  and  Mrs.  Alderson 
rose  up  nervously  and  looked  at  Loida,  and  Loida 
hasted  to  her  side,  and  the  ladies  went  downstairs  to- 
gether. They  saw  Dick  at  the  foot  of  them,  and  Loida 
called  to  him :  "  We  are  coming,  Dick ;  "  and  in  a  few 
moments  they  entered  the  bank  with  him. 

The  company  were  all  standing.  Some  had  checks 
in  their  hands,  others  were  buckling  them  up  in  their 
capacious  pocket-books.  Such  a  crowd  of  large,  rosy, 
pleased-looking  men!  It  gave  a  sense  of  new  life  to 
go  among  them.  They  were  all  talking,  and  all  talk- 
ing together.  Hearty  laughs  emphasized  their  words. 
They  had  all  been  partakers  in  a  deed  which  made  them 
think  well  of  their  kind,  and  they  were  as  happy,  and  as 
satisfied  with  themselves,  as  if  they  had  each  individu- 
ally been  the  doer  of  it.  In  one  sense  they  had.  For 
if  Dick  Alderson  had  worked  and  saved,  they  had 
trusted  and  waited ;  and  they  all  felt  that  their  forbear- 
ance had  not  only  given  Dick  a  chance,  but  had  also 
strengthened  the  hands  and  heart  of  his  mother  to  do 
her  part. 

When  she  entered  the  room,  they  gave  her  a  ringing 
cheer.  They  crowded  round,  and  shook  her  hands,  and 
told  her  she  had  a  fine  son,  and  that  they  were  glad 
to  see  him  home  again.  And  when  she  said  "  Gentle- 
men ! "  they  hushed  in  a  moment  their  noisy  talk,  and, 
hats  in  hands,  stood  still  to  listen  to  her. 

She  looked  at  them  with  a  happy  smile. 

"Gentlemen!  Dick  has  done  his  best  to  atone  for 
his  fault.  I,  his  mother,  ask  you  to  blot  it  out  of  your 
memories;  to  give  him  your  respect  and  your  confi- 


188  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUX. 

dence  as  if  he  had  never  forfeited  them ;  to  meet  him 
at  church  and  at  market  as  you  used  to  meet  his  father. 
If  you  cannot  do  this,  be  honest,  straightforward  men, 
and  say :  '  Nay,  we  cannot  forget.'  Then  Dick  will 
go  away  from  here,  and  I  will  go  with  him ;  and  we 
will  begin  life  elsewhere.  But,  gentlemen,  I  can  trust 
Dick.  I  can,  indeed ! " 

"  And  I  can  trust  Dick,  too.  I  can  trust  him  with 
all  my  happiness,  with  all  my  estate,  with  all  the  days 
of  my  life,  even  unto  the  grave.  Friends,  if  the  love  of 
life  is  also  the  love  of  heaven,  I  can  trust  Dick  for  all 
eternity." 

It  was  Loida  Vyner  who  spoke.  She  looked  at  the 
gathered  gentlemen,  and  then  she  turned  to  Dick  ?.^d 
put  her  hand  in  his. 

There  was  a  confusion  of  smothered  ejaculations. 
Men  looked  into  their  hats  and  fingered  the  Madras 
.silk  handkerchiefs  which  lay  in  them.  They  were  all 
much  moved,  and  not  quick  in  expressing  feelings  of 
this  kind.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  painful  silence, 
and  many  eyes  were  turned  upon  one  old  man,  Squire 
Gerald  Granby,  a  magistrate  and  a  person  of  great  so- 
cial power.  He  was  restless  while  Loida  was  speaking, 
and  he  looked  steadily  at  the  young  man  standing  be- 
tween his  mother  and  his  betrothed.  Not  a  man  to  de- 
cide quickly  about  anything,  Squire  Granby,  in  this 
case,  came  to  an  instant  determination. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  have  the  name  of  being 
honest  men.  Dick  Alderson  has  proved  he  is  an  honest 
man.  That  is  about  the  difference  between  him  and 
us,  eh  ?  " 

"To  be  sure!      To  be  sure,  squire !" 


FORTUNATE    GOLD.  189 

"  In  this  respect,  then,  he  has  an  advantage  over  us. 
We  know — not  by  words,  but  by  deeds — that  Richard 
Alderson  is  an  honest  man.  I  will  give  him  a  hearty 
welcome  on  my  heart  and  at  my  table.  I  will  give  nim 
my  vote  and  my  friendship  in  the  hunt  and  the  militia, 
and  if  he  chooses  to  open  the  doors  of  his  father's  and 
his  grandfather's  bank,  he  may  put  the  check  he  has 
just  given  me  down  as  the  first  deposit." 

Then  what  a  tumult  there  was!  "  Hear,  hear! "  cried 
some.  "  Hurrah  for  Granby  and  Alderson ! "  cried 
others.  A  crowd  shook  Dick's  hands  again ;  another 
crowd  gathered  round  the  generous  speaker.  Mrs.  Al- 
derson leaned  upon  her  son's  shoulder  and  cried  for  joy. 
Loida  went  to  Squire  Granby,  who  was  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  and  gave  him  both  her  hands,  and  he  said : 

"  Thou  spoke  like  a  good  woman,  Loida.  More  good 
women  like  -thee  would  make  more  good  men.  Tell 
me  when  thou  marries  Dick,  and  I  will  come  and  give 
thee  away.  Good  girl!  Good  girl!  God  love  thee, 
my  dear!" 

And  so  with  kind  wishes  and  kind  words  tumbling 
over  each  other,  the  happy  company  departed.  Then 
the  chief  actors  in  the  little  drama  also  went  homeward. 
The  hour  dreamed  of,  worked  for,  endured  for,  waited 
for,  through  ten  long  years,  had  been  realized.  Mrs. 
Alderson  wept  softly  and  happily,  and  Dick  and  Loida 
kissed  her  tears  away.  Dick  was  silent  with  his  felicity. 
Loida,  in  all  her  life,  had  never  been  so  beautiful  and  so 
lovable.  Her  long  seclusion  had  given  a  kind  of  antique 
bon  ton  to  her  that  was  charming,  and  her  affectionate., 
loyal  nature  imparted  to  her  presence  a  living  sweetness. 

Into  this  wonderful  joy  Francesca  could  not  enter. 


190  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

She  was  glad  to  return  to  Atherton  Court.  There  were 
places  there  in  which  Lancelot's  personality  was  still 
strong.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  him  in  strange 
rooms,  for  in  places  they  had  never  been  together  she 
could  not  catch  the  spirit  of  those  impalpable  impres- 
sions of  Lancelot  which  remained  like  pictures  in  the 
air  of  those  spots  familiar  to  their  love  and  their  hopes. 

And  she  did  not  like  to  trouble  Loida's  late  joyful 
spring  with  the  gloom  of  her  own  despair.  Perhaps, 
too,  Loida's  spontaneous  sympathy  was  not  now  as  act- 
ive as  Francesca's  needs  demanded.  In  spite  of  every 
effort  she  could  make,  in  spite  of  the  new  hopes  on 
every  side  of  her  life,  Francesca  was  very  miserable.  If 
she  could  only  hear  of  Lancelot!  If  she  only  knew 
where  he  was!  If  she  only  knew  he  was  well!  If  she 
only  knew  that  he  still  loved  her,  then  she  could  better 
bear  to  live.  As  it  was,  she  hated  every  day,  for  she 
went  weeping  to  sleep,  and  woke  up  sighing  to  think  of 
the  long  hours  she  must  face  with  a  serene  countenance 
and  a  breaking  heart. 

She  thought  that  nobody  now  cared  for  her — that  is, 
they  did  not  care  about  Lancelot,  or  put  themselves  to 
any  trouble  to  find  out  what  had  become  of  him.  Her 
father's  long  absence  convinced  her  that  he  had  his 
heart  and  his  happiness  with  him.  It  made  her  sad  to 
think  he  could  be  dining  and  feasting  and  going  on  all 
kinds  of  pleasure-makings,  and  never  remember  her  de- 
spair. And  Loida  was  so  entirely  taken  up  with  Dick  and 
the  refurnishing  of  Vyner  Hall,  and  the  getting  ready  of 
her  new  bridal  garments,  not  to  speak  of  the  charge  she 
kept  at  Atherton,  that  Francesca  never  could  get  a  long 
talk  with  her  about  Lancelot.  Some  person  or  thing 


FORTUNATE  GOLD.  191 

always  interfered.  Every  one  was  forgetting  Lance- 
lot but  herself.  She  could  feel  that  his  very  name  was 
a  bore,  an  intrusion,  a  cloud  across  the  sunshine,  a  false 
note  in  the  song  of  happiness. 

So  the  summer  sped  away.  The  squire  was  expected 
home  in  September,  and  Loida  and  Dick  would  be  mar- 
ried immediately  afterward.  All  the  old  life  at  Atherton 
Court  would  then  be  past  forever.  A  new  mistress,, 
with  new  ways,  would  take  Loida's  place,  and  Francesca 
knew  that  her  father  would,  in  many  respects,  be  a 
different  man.  There  would  be  changes  of  which  he 
might  not  be  conscious,  but  which  would  be  painfully 
evident  to  her.  For  no  one  can  live  among  strange 
people  and  under  strange  influences  for  months  and 
remain  unaltered  by  the  circumstances. 

These  considerations  moved  her  to  take  a  desperate 
step. 

"  Loida,"  she  said,  one  evening,  as  they  sat  sewing 
and  thinking — "  Loida,  will  you  go  with  me  to  Idle- 
holme  ?  " 

"To  Idleholme!  Why,  Francesca,  Jane  is  in  Italy. 
Why  do  you  want  to  go  there  ? " 

"  I  want  to  see  Lancelot's  mother.  We  could  stay  a 
day  or  two  at  Idleholme,  and  I  would  ride  over  to 
Leigh.  Perhaps — perhaps  I  might  find  something  out." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  course  would  be  quite  right, 
Francesca." 

"  Yes,  it  would.  Yes,  it  would.  Remember,  Aunt 
Loida,  that  you  are  going  away  from  me.  I  shall  be 
left  here  with  a  strange  woman,  who  never  saw  Lancelot. 
Who  am  I  to  speak  to  ?  Father  will  not  listen  to  me ; 
and  if  he  would,  can  I  talk  to  him  now?  Dear  Loida, 


192  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

before  you  go,  as  a  last  kindness  to  me,  give  me  this 
satisfaction.  If  my  mother  were  alive,  I  am  sure  she 
would  let  me  go.  This  morning  I  found  a  verse  which 
I  said  weeping  to  her,  and  then  the  thought  of  going 
to  Leigh  came  into  my  mind.  It  was  this  verse : 

"  '  Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven, 

Stand  upon  the  jasper  sea, 
And  be  witness  I  have  given 

All  the  gifts  required  of  me. 
Hope  that  blessed  me, 
Bliss  that  crowned, 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound.' 

Let  me  go  to  Leigh,  Aunt  Loida." 

"  You  shall  go,  dear.  I  will  ask  Dick  to  go  with  us. 
But  could  not  Dick  go  for  you  ?  " 

"  No.  I  am ,  sure  I  can  do  better  than  any  one. 
Lancelot's  mother  is  a  very  strange  woman.  Dick 
would  not  know  how  to  manage  her ;  but  I  think  she 
will  be  kind  to  me,  for  Lancelot's  sake." 

"Then  we  will  go  to  Idleholme  in  a  few  days — per- 
haps next  Monday." 

"  That  is  nearly  a  week  away.  I  cannot,  cannot  wait 
so  long,  Loida.  Why  not  go  to-morrow  ?  Dick  returns 
to  Alderson  Bars  on  Saturday,  and  he  may  not  come 
back  for  several  days.  Loida,  days  seem  whole  years 
to  me.  I  am  so  wretched  that  every  moment  is  an 
hour." 

"Then  we  will  go  to-morrow.  Leaving  at  nine 
o'clock,  we  can  gallop  there  in  five  hours,  and  Dick  will 
be  a  sufficient  escort." 

The  decision  and  promptitude  of  Loida's  acquies- 
cence gave  some  heart  and  hope  to  the  sorrowing  girl. 


FORTUNATE  GOLD.  193 

and  she  was  almost  cheerful  next  morning  when  they 
cantered  together  through  the  park  and  on  to  the  high- 
road to  Leigh.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  the 
physical  effort  being  made  in  the  direction  Francesca 
herself  desired,  it  did  her  a  great  deal  of  good.  And 
at  Idleholme  they  met  a  glad  welcome  from  the  squire 
and  Mrs.  Idle.  Almund  was  in  Italy  with  his  sister. 

"  He  wanted  us  to  go  with  him,"  said  the  squire,  "  but 
my  mistress  thinks  nothing  of  foreign  countries  and  their 
ways." 

"  Thomas  is  right,"  answered  Mrs.  Idle.  "  I  say  the 
West  Riding  is  good  enough  for  any  Christian.  And 
it  is  very  dangerous  traveling  about,  what  with  steam- . 
boats,  and  railway-carriages,  and  custom-houses,  and 
such  like,  not  to  speak  of  the  unknown  things  you  get 
to  eat  and  drink.  When  I  was  in  France,  four  years 
ago,  I  never  felt  safe  a  minute ;  did  I,  Thomas  ?  " 

Still,  they  were  much  interested  in  Dick's  Mexican  ex- 
periences, and  a  very  pleasant  evening  was  spent.  And 
in  the  morning  a  little  diplomacy  secured  to  Francesca 
the  circumstances  necessary  for  her  visit  to  Lancelot's 
mother.  Dick  went  with  her,  and  he  was  precisely 
such  an  escort  as  she  desired.  He  did  not  trouble  her 
to  talk,  yet  if  she  wished  to  converse  about  Lancelot,  he 
was  full  of  sympathy  and  hope. 

There  was  no  sunshine  when  they  left  Idleholme — 
only  a  mild,  hazy,  diffused  light ;  and  just  as  they 
reached  Leigh  House  a  soft  rain  began  to  fall.  Fran- 
cesca looked  at  Dick,  and  he  smiled  assuringly  back, 
as  he  said : 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  rain.  I  will  do  as  we  proposed 
— ride  on  to  Crossley  Hall.  I  want  to  talk  a  coupk  of 


194  LOl'E  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

hours  there ;  then  I  will  call  at  Leigh  for  you.  Is  that 
what  you  wish  ?  " 

She  said  it  was,  but  her  heart  fell  as  she  entered  the 
farmyard  of  Leigh.  There  were  several  men  busy  in 
its  precincts,  and  one  of  them  assisted  her  from  her  sad- 
dle. He  said  Mrs.  Leigh  was  at  home,  and  opened  a 
half -door  which  was  on  that  side  of  the  house,  and  told 
her  to  go  to  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  She 
followed  his  directions,  treading  as  softly  as  if  she  wished 
to  conceal  her  presence.  At  the  door  indicated  she 
stood  still ;  she  was  sick  with  uncertainty  and  fear.  She 
was  afraid  now  to  provoke  the  answer  of  her  doubts. 
Perhaps  suspense  with  hope  might  be  easier  to  bear 
than  the  certainty  she  had  come  to  ask  for. 

In  a  few  moments  she  tapped  at  the  door,  and  then 
opened  it.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room,  and  she  sat 
down.  The  place  was  familiar  to  her.  She  had  been 
warmed  and  refreshed  there  on  the  day  the  snow-storm 
drove  her  to  refuge  in  Leigh.  The  very  same  parlor, 
.and  yet  there  were  changes.  The  big  oak  chair  of  the 
master  was  not  on  the  hearth.  It  was  set  back  against 
the  wall  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  His  slippers  and  pipe 
were  not  visible ;  the  dogs  he  loved  were  no  longer 
stretched  on  their  sheepskin  rug;  one  was  dead,  the 
other  had  voluntarily  left  his  home  and  gone  over  to 
-Crossley's  to  live.  The  violin  and  books  that  had  been 
Lancelot's  special  tokens  were  removed.  Excepting  the 
big  Bible  on  the  folded-down  table,  there  was  not  a  book 
visible.  No  pile  of  newspapers,  no  guns  in  the  corner 
or.  trout-rods  against  the  walls.  The  room,  in  short, 
•  had  the  air  of  a  room  into  which  men  never  came. 

Francesca  was  glad  of  a  few  moments'  reprieve.     A 


FORTUNATE  GOLD.  195 

depressing  sense  of  sorrow  stole  over  her.  She  could 
not  escape  its  penetrating  influence.  It  was  as  much  in 
the  air  as  the  moisture  was.  She  felt  ill  at  ease,  half-in- 
clined to  run  away  and  abandon  her  intention.  But  the 
fear  was  not  positive,  and  her  intention  was.  So  she  sat 
still  opposite  an  open  casement,  watching  the  slow,  per- 
sistent rain.  It  made  little  ado,  but  it  was  drenching 
everything.  The  birds  sitting  droopy  and  silent  on  the 
ivy  boughs  were  already  draggled  and  miserable  in  it. 

When  Martha  Leigh  entered  the  room,  she  went 
straight  to  the  open  window  and  closed  it.  Her  move- 
ments were  hasty  and  irritable,  and  she  turned  angrily 
to  Francesca,  and  said : 

"  Thou  might  hev  hed  the  sense  to  shut  the  window 
when  it  was  raining,  I  do  think.  Whativer  does  ta  want 
here  ?  And  who  art  thou  ?  " 

Francesca's  first  feeling  was  one  of  proud  resentment, 
but  when  Martha  turned  her  face  and  she  saw  the  mis- 
ery it  reflected,  she  was  humbled  before  such  sorrow. 
Rising  gently,  she  went  close  to  Mrs.  Leigh,  and  said : 

"  I  do  not  wonder  you  have  forgotten  me.  I  am  so 
much  changed." 

"  I  see.  Poor  lass !  What  has  been  the  matter  with 
thee  ?  Why-a!  Thou  art  Squire  Atherton's  daughter. 
I  do  believe  thou  art." 

"Yes." 

"  And  whativer  does  thou  want  here  ? " 

"  I  want  to  know  where  Lancelot  is." 

"  I  can't  tell  thee.     I  don't  know  where  he  is." 

There  was  a  tone  in  her  voice  that  shocked  Fran- 
cesca, it  was  so  final  and  so  broken-hearted. 

"  Have  pity  on  me.     You  are  his  mother,  you  must 


196  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

have  a  kind  heart.  You  are  his  mother,  you  must  know- 
where  he  is.  Have  pity  on  me.  I  am  so  miserable." 

"  I  cannot  help  thee  any." 

"  You  can  tell  me  where  he  is — if  he  is  alive — if  he 
is  well — if  he  still — thinks  of  me." 

She  was  holding  Martha's  arm ;  she  was  trying  to 
make  the  wretched  woman  meet  her  imploring  eyes. 
Martha  would  not  look  at  her.  She  removed  Fran- 
cesca's  hand  and  led  her  to  a  chair. 

"  Sit  thee  down,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot  tell  where  he 
is.  I  don't  know  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead,  well  or 
sick ;  and  if  he  hes  forgotten  his  awn  mother,  is  it  likely 
he  thinks  about  thee  ?  What  did  ta  come  here  for  ? 
Crying  and  taking  on  in  such  a  way!  Thou  oughtn't 
to  do  it.  Will  ta  hev  a  cup  of  tea  ? " 

"  I  want  nothing  but  a  word  or  two  you  will  not  give 
me.  Do  you  not  see  I  am  dying  of  grief? " 

"  Don't  thee  talk  to  me  about  dying  of  grief.  I  bore 
the  lad.  I  nursed  him  at  my  breast.  I  lived  and 
moved  and  hed  my  being  in  him  for  seven  and  twenty 
years  afore  thou  iver  put  eyes  on  him.  Dying!  What- 
iver  are  women  made  of  now  ?  If  I  can  bide  his  loss, 
I  think  thou  may  make  shift  to  live  without  him.  He 
was  none  of  thy  lad,  anyway." 

"He  was!  He  was!  He  loved  me,  and  I  loved 
him.  I  love  him  yet,  better  than  my  life."  She  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  as  a  child  in  over- 
whelming distress  might  sob. 

Martha  was  not  much  touched.  She  had  a  con- 
tempt for  a  weeping  woman.  She  did  not  know 
what  to  do  in  such  cases.  Petting,  coaxing,  consoling, 
treating  them  as  wounded,  suffering  babies,  was  quite 


FORTUNATE  GOLD.  197 

out  of  her  power.  She  went  restlessly  about  the  room, 
moving  a  chair  here  and  there,  putting  things  out  of 
and  then  into  their  place,  scarcely  knowing  the  motive 
of  her  movements.  Only  she  was  annoyed.  The  sob- 
bing girl  whom  she  could  not  comfort — whom,  indeed, 
she  did  not  want  to  comfort — worried  and  vexed  her 
patient  mind.  She  could  think  of  nothing  but  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  she  made  one  and  set  it  before  Francesca,  say- 
ing: 

"  There,  now.  Thou  art  nervous  and  fractious.  Take 
a  drink  of  tea.  It's  a  good  thing  for  crying  women." 

Francesca  pushed  it  away.  And  in  the  act  she  caught 
Martha's  eyes,  and  compelled  the  woman  to  look  at  her, 
as  she  said : 

"  I  ask  you,  by  God's  pity,  to  give  me  a  word  from 
Lancelot,  and  you  offer  me  a  cup  of  tea.  It  is  a  shame 
of  you !  What  a  cruel  heart  you  must  have !  Lancelot 
was  his  father's  son,  not  yours — not  yours." 

Francesca  had  got  beyond  tears  now.  She  felt 
wronged  and  insulted,  and  she  spoke  with  an  indignant 
reproach  that  brought  color  into  her  cheeks  and  fire  into 
her  eyes.  Martha  was  angry,  but  the  mood  suited  her 
better.  And  she  noticed  then  how  really  ill  Francesca 
looked — how  her  pretty  face  had  paled  and  thinned — 
how  slight  her  figure  had  become — what  general  ravage 
corroding,  sorrowful  suspense  had  made. 

"  Is  that  the  way  ladies  talk  nowadays  ?  "  she  asked 
scornfully.  "My  word!  When  I  was  a  girl,  I  would 
hev  '  got  it '  if  I  hed  spoke  to  any  older  than  mysen  in 
such  fashion." 

"  Forgive  me — mother.  I  was  to  have  been  Lance- 
lot's wife.  May  I  call  you  mother?" 


198  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR, 

"Nay,  I  think  not.  I  am  sure  not.  Thou  hes  just 
said  Lancelot  was  not  my  son." 

"  I  did  not  mean  it.  •  I  was  angry.  I  was  wrong. 
Let  me  call  you — mother.  I  have  no  real  mother; 
only  a  stepmother." 

"A  'stepmother'!  Niver!  Hes  thy  father  got  wed 
again  ? " 

"  Yes,  many  months  ago." 

"  Poor  lass ! " 

"  Why  do  you  not  want  me  to  marry  Lancelot !  Tell 
me,  mother." 

"I  will!  I  will!  Because  Lancelot  would  leave  his 
own  house  and  land  for  thy  house  and  land.  He  would 
go  to  live  at  Atherton  Court,  and  this  dear  house  be  let 
to  strangers  or  go  to  empty  ruin.  And  there  is  them 
that  would  not  like  it" 

"  But  I  like  this  house.  I  would  come  here  and  live 
with  Lancelot.  I  would  like  to  come  and  stay  with 
you  sometimes.  May  I  ? " 

"  No.  Thou  hed  better  keep  away  from  here.  But 
if  ta  married  Lancelot,  would  ta  live  part  of  thy  time 
here,  and  keep  the  house  open  and  in  fair  order  ? "  asked 
Martha. 

"  I  would  like  to  do  so !  Mother!  Mother!  If  you 
know  where  Lancelot  is,  for  Lancelot's  dear  sake  tell 
me.  He  would  like  you  to  tell  me.  I  am  sure  he 
would." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is.  I  hed  a  line  or  two 
from  him  when  he  landed  in  Vera  Cruz.  He  said  he 
was  going  into  the  '  interior,'  wherever  that  is,  and  he 
would  write  again  when  he  got  there.  He  hes  niver 
written  me  another  line." 


FORTUNATE   GOLD.  1 99 

"  What  did  he  go  away  for,  mother  ?  " 
"  It  was  said  he  went  to  buy  cotton." 
"  Do  you  think  he  went  to  buy  cotton  ?  " 
"  My  lass!      Don't  thee  ask  me  for  my  thoughts." 
Then  there  was  a  pause.     Both  women  were  silent. 
Both  were  thinking  and  feeling  intensely.     The  day  had 
grown    darker    and    darker.     The   rain    poured  now. 
There  was  npt  a  breath  of  wind.     It  was  one  of  those 
lifeless,  motionless  storms  which  are  such  dead-weights 
on  the  mind.     And  the  gray  light  in  the  room  made 
everything  gray,  except  Francesca's  face,  which  had  a 
kind  of  shining  pallor  that  attracted  Martha's  attention, 
in  spite  of  herself.     Its  expression  was  so  hopeless,  and 
full  of  that  sense  of  "  bearing  "  which  women  understand. 
This  mood  Martha  could  sympathize  with ;  at  least  she 
was  not  made  angry  by  its  still  endurance.     After  a  few 
minutes'  thought  she  said : 

"  Would  ta  like  to  see  my  big  picture  of  Lancelot  ?  " 
"  You  could  show  me  nothing  I  would  like  better,  ex. 
cept  himself." 
"  Come,  then." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  new  wing,  and  with  a  trifling 
hesitation  turned  the  key  of  Lancelot's  room.  It  was 
quite  dark.  She  groped  her  way  to  a  window  and 
opened  the  wooden  shutters,  and  the  gray  light  looked 
in  upon  the  deserted  place.  The  furniture  was  still  in 
its  proper  positions.  Lancelot  had  only  removed  a  few 
small  souvenirs.  The  walls  were  covered  with  pictures, 
but  one  stood  against  the  wall  unhung.  It  was  an  oil 
painting  of  Lancelot,  taken  at  his  majority.  Its  place 
was  in  one  of  the  usual  sitting-rooms,  but  Martha  had 
been  unable  to  bear  its  presence,  and  she  had  removed  it. 


2OO  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

The  lifelike  presentment  was  like  the  opening  of  the 
flood-gates  of  sorrow  to  Francesca.  She  stood  before 
it  gazing  as  if  her  gaze  could  force  the  silent  lips  to 
speak  to  her ;  then  she  knelt  down,  and  kissed  the  face 
with  flowing  tears  and  words  of  fond  endearment. 
Martha  turned  away  from  grief  so  poignant ;  she  occu- 
pied herself  in  opening  the  other  windows ;  in  altering 
the  position  of  chairs ;  in  a  kindly  and  rather  noisy  dis- 
traction, not  devoid  of  sympathy,  though  expressed  so 
strangely.  And  she  neither  hurried  nor  interfered  with 
the  passionate  sorrow  of  the  distressed  girl.  And  per- 
haps that  was  the  best  of  all  sympathy,  for  in  a  short 
time  Francesca's  bitterly  sweet  orison  was  made.  She 
took  from  her  throat  a  square  of  white  silk,  and  covered 
the  dear  face  with  it.  Then  she  went  to  Martha  and 
said  simply : 

"  Thank  you." 

She  would  have  liked  to  kiss  the  cold,  gray  face  above 
her.  To  her  it  was  not  repellant.  But  Martha  held 
herself  away  from  any  such  demonstrations.  She  only 
said: 

"  If  ta  hes  done,  we  can  go  downstairs  again.  I 
can't  ask  thee  to  stay  any  longer.  I  hev  a  lot  to  do  to- 
day." 

Francesca  was  standing  by  the  piano.  She  opened  it 
and  touched  the  notes  with  a  slow,  uncertain  hand. 
They  fell  thin  and  strange  into  the  empty  air.  Yet  the 
melody  was  a  familiar  one  to  both  women.  Mrs.  Leigh 
had  often  paused  at  her  work,  or  sat  still  with  her  sew- 
ing in  her  hand,  to  listen  to  it.  She  stood  watching  the 
girl  at  the  instrument,  her  face  catching  color,  her  eyes 
light ;  the  notes  growing  stronger,  sweeter,  firmer,  till  at 


FORTUNATE   GOLD,  2OI 

the  last  strain  she  found  strength  in  her  heart  to  voice 
the  melody — 

' '  Oh,  so  -white  !     Ok,  so  soft !     Oh,  so  sweet  is  she  !  " 

The  words  fell  one  by  one,  with  all  the  festive  magnifi- 
cence of  accompaniment  that  love  had  given  them. 
Martha  had  heard  Lancelot  ring  them  out  in  such  clear, 
happy  tones,  as  only  birds  in  spring  can  reach.  Fran- 
cesca's  voice  was  but  their  thin,  far-away  echo.  But 
something  in  the  effort  had  comforted  her.  She  rose, 
and  Martha  put  her  gently  aside,  and  began  to  close 
and  cover  up  the  instrument. 

"  I  wouldn't  hev  let  any  one  but  thee  put  a  finger  on 
it,"  she  said ;  "  no,  not  even  Queen  Victoria  hersen." 

Francesca  was  standing  at  a  table  on  which  lay  a 
book  open,  and  turned  face  downward.  She  thanked 
Martha,  and  then  lifted  the  book.  It  was  a  compilation 
of  poems  from  various  sources,  but  one  was  broadly 
marked,  and  looked  as  if  it  had  been  purposely  left  to 
attract  attention. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Martha. 

"  A  book  of  poetry." 

"  He  was  always  reading  such  nonsense.  It  did  him 
a  deal  of  harm.  Love!  Love!  Love!  As  if  life 
was  nothing  but  a  kiss  and  a  song  and  such  miff-maff ! " 

"  The  poem  he  has  marked  so  broadly — look  at  it — 
it  is  not  about  love.  It  is  about  '  Haunted  Houses.'  " 

"Niver!" 

"It  is,  really.  See  how  he  has  penciled  those  four 
verses.  Read  them." 

"  I  hevn't  my  spectacles.  I  don't  believe  I  could 
read  poetry,  unless  it  was  maybe  a  hymn  of  Bishop 


2O2  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Ken's.  'Haunted  Houses! '  I  niver  heard  of  poetry 
like  that.  I  wish  ta  would  read  it  to  me.  It  must  be 
varry  queer  stuff." 

Then  Francesca  lifted  the  book  again  and  read  in  a 
soft,  solemn  voice  the  verses  marked  by  Lancelot : 

"  All  houses  wherein  men  hare  lived  and  died 

Are  haunted  houses.     Through  the  open  doors 
The  harmless  phantoms  on  their  errands  glide, 
With  feet  that  make  no  sound  upon  the  floors. 

"  We  meet  them  at  the  doorway,  on  the  stair, 

Along  the  passages  they  come  and  go, 
Impalpable  impressions  on  the  air, 

A  sense  of  something  moving  to  and  fro. 

"  There  are  more  guests  at  table  than  the  hosts 

Invited ;  the  illuminated  hall 
Is  thronged  with  quiet,  inoffensive  ghosts, 
As  silent  as  the  pictures  on  the  wall. 

"  We  have  no  title  deeds  to  house  or  lands ; 
Owners  and  occupants  of  earlier  dates, 
From  graves  forgotten,  stretch  their  dusty  hands, 
And  hold  in  mortmain  still  their  old  estates."  * 

"That  beats  all!"  said  Martha.  "Is  that  poetry? 
My  lass,  it  is  true  as  gospel!  I  know!  I  know! 
'Hold  in  mortmain!  '  Of  course.  Leigh  Farm  is  held 
in  dead  hands,  and  no  living  ones  can  alienate  it.  That 
is  the  truth.  Give  me  the  book.  I  wouldn't  wonder 
but  it  was  put  there  for  me  by  them  that  know.  I  am 
obliged  to  thee  for  showing  me  such  a  bit  of  comfort. 
Come ;  we  will  go  now." 

She  was  averse  to  speak  after  this  incident,  though 
she  clasped  the  book  tightly  and  took  it  away  with  her. 
*  Longfellow. 


FORTUNATE   GOLD.  2 03 

And  Dick  was  waiting ;  there  was  no  excuse  for  longer 
delay.  But  Francesca  felt  that  she  had  gained  a  little 
good  will,  and  she  ventured  to  ask,  as  she  said  "  Good- 
by": 

"  Mother,  if  you  do  hear  anything — will  you  let  me 
know  ? " 

"I  shall  not  hear.  Don't  thee  hev  any  such  false 
hope." 

"  But  if  you  do  ?  He  may  write.  Can  we  not  at 
least  hope  he  will  ? " 

"  To  be  sure,  if  we  are  set  on  that  kind  of  folly — we 
can  hope  to  catch  larks  if  ever  the  heavens  should  fall. 
Thou  wilt  get  a  wetting ;  take  care  and  not  get  a  cold. 
That  will  be  worse  than  love — I  can  tell  thee  that!" 

And  she  turned  dourly  in,  seeming  almost  to  leave  a 
shadow  where  she  had  stood. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HOPE   AND   TWO    SAD   WOMEN. 

Ah,  who  shall  help  us  from  overtelling 

That  sweet,  forgotten,  forbidden  lore! 

E'en  as  we  doubt  in  our  hearts  once  more, 
With  a  rush  of  tears  to  our  eyelids  welling, 
Love  comes  back  to  his  vacant  dwelling. — Austin  Dobson. 

Going  to  die!      For  who  shall  waste  in  sadness, 
Shorn  of  the  sun,  the  very  warmth  and  light, 

Miss  the  green  welcome  of  the  sweet  earth's  gladness, 
Lose  the  round  life  that  only  love  makes  bright ; 

There  is  no  succor  if  these  things  are  taken ; 
None  but  Death  loves  the  lips  by  love  forsaken. 

— Austin  Dobson. 

A  BOUT  the  middle  of  September  the  squire  and  his 
1\  bride  returned  to  Atherton  Court.  Great  prepara- 
tions were  made  for  this  event,  and  Loida  took  a  special 
pride  in  delivering  up  her  household  charge  with  that 
kind  of  eclat  which  spotless  purity  and  elaborate  adorn- 
ment can  give.  The  new  mistress  of  Atherton  stepped 
across  a  threshold  whose  antique  beauty  was  radiant 
with  the  flowers  gathered  that  morning — dahlias  and 
asters,  lavender  and  marigold,  and  all  the  treasures  of 
bronzing  ferns  and  the  autumn  amaryllis. 

She  stepped  across  it  with  a  smile  of  irresistible  at- 
traction— a  smile  that  deprecated  premature  judgment, 
that  asked  for  affection,  and  insinuated  all  it  asked. 
She  was  a  very  pretty  woman,  quite  forty  years  of  age, 


HOPE  AND    TWO    SAD    WOMEN.  205 

but  looking  much  younger.  Her  dress  was  the  perfec- 
tion of  taste — dark,  rich,  and  of  faultless  fit.  She  was 
exquisitely  booted  and  gloved,  and  her  hat  was  piquant 
and  becoming ;  altogether  she  gave  the  idea  of  a  dainty 
bird  in  its  fresh  spring  plumage. 

Francesca  and  Miss  Loida  were  in  full  dinner  dress, 
and  there  was  the  stir  and  air  of  a  festival  throughout 
the  house.  Mrs.  Atherton  was  charmed  and  charming, 
and  the  squire  happy  because  she  was  happy.  They 
came  to  the  dinner-table  together  as  radiant  and  as  mag- 
nificently dressed  as  a  bride  and  bridegroom  ought  to  be. 
Indeed,  the  squire  had  renewed  his  youth.  Instead  of 
the  slippered,  indolent  gentleman  who  had  reluctantly 
gone  to  London,  there  was  an  alert,  handsome  man, 
quick  at  every  point,  appreciative  of  his  fine  wines  and 
good  cook,  anticipating  changes  he  had  already  pro- 
jected. In  fact,  a  man  full  of  the  reserved  strength 
of  many  years,  who  had  been  suddenly  awakened  and 
vitalized  by  an  absorbing  affection. 

He  was,  indeed,  too  happy  himself  and  too  much  ab- 
sorbed in  his  plans  to  notice  much  change  in  his  daugh- 
ter. Francesca  was  beautifully  dressed  in  a  pink  silk 
frock,  and  its  glow  and  shimmer  gave  to  the  fading 
beauty  of  the  girl  a  fictitious  color,  which  the  squire  did 
not  analyze.  He  thought  his  daughter  looked  very  well 
and  very  lovely ;  he  thought  Loida  looked  ten  years 
younger,  and  he  had  become  learned  enough  in  toilet 
matters  to  know  that  she  was  a  trifle  old-fashioned  in 
her  style  of  dress.  He  bantered  her  about  it,  and  was 
answered  with  a  shade  of  offense :  "  Dick  liked  her 
dress,  and  she  had  the  pleasure  of  dressing  for  Dick 


206  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Perhaps  neither  Francesca  nor  Loida  thought  the 
squire  was  quite  as  fine  a  gentleman  as  when  he  left 
them.  He  used  to  think  for  every  one  but  himself,  and 
now — 

"  He  cares  only  for  his  new  wife,"  said  Francesca. 
"  He  used  to  be  so  quiet,  so  restful,  so  easy  to  please ; 
now  I  am  tired  of  the  laughing  and  talking  and  dress- 
ing, and  going  out,  and  he  is  as  particular  about  our 
dress  and  the  sen-ing  of  the  table  as  if  he  had  a  dinner- 
party every  day." 

Which  complaint  was  true  enough.  The  careful  state 
of  the  home-coming  dinner  was  not  relaxed;  and  if 
Francesca  did  not  attire  herself  in  accordance  with  it, 
she  was  made  to  feel  that  her  father  disapproved  her 
carelessness.  Mrs.  Atherton  was  the  keynote  of  the 
house,  and  she  kept  it  up  to  its  highest  pitch  of  elegant 
order.  And  the  marvelous  thing  was,  the  servants 
made  no  complaints.  Under  Miss  Loida's  authority 
the  least  extra  work  was  done  under  protest ;  the  extra 
work  under  Mrs.  Atherton  became  regular  work,  and 
they  did  it  with  alacrity  and  cheerfulness. 

The  very  morning  after  her  arrival  she  went  into  the 
conservatory  and  ordered  the  gardener  to  cut  a  large 
quantity  of  his  finest  flowers  for  the  house.  Loida  was 
amused  at  the  man's  face.  He  had  always  been  stingy 
to  the  last  degree  of  the  conservatory  treasures ;  Mrs. 
Atherton  ordered  them  with  lavish  prodigality.  The 
man  gave  her  a  look  which  had  been  wont  to  abash 
Miss  Loida  and  Francesca,  and  even  the  squire ;  but 
Mrs.  Atherton  appeared  quite  unconscious  of  his  disap- 
proval. She  went  about  the  guarded  walks,  snipping 
here  and  snipping  there,  and  laughing  lowly,  and  mak- 


HOPE  AND    TWO    SAD   WOMEN.  2O/ 

ing  merry  asides  to  Francesca  as  she  cut  the  rarest  and 
loveliest  blooms. 

It  was  a  just  retribution  for  long-continued  oppres- 
sion, and  Loida  and  Francesca  could  not  help  feeling  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  it. 

"  That  man  is  a  boor,"  said  Mrs.  Atherton,  as  they 
returned  to  the  house ;  "  and  he  will  have  to  learn  good 
manners  or  go." 

And  Francesca  answered : 

"You  have  cut  more  flowers  this  morning  than  he 
ever  parted  with  before.  He  would  scarcely  give  us 
any  for  the  table  the  day  you  came  home.  If  we  should 
go  back  now,  you  would  find  him  crying  or  in  a  pas- 
sion." 

Mrs,  Atherton  went  back.  The  man  was  in  both 
conditions. 

"  Send  the  flowers  I  cut  to  the  house  at  once,  Barker," 
she  said. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  Excuse  me.  You  have  spoiled  the 
conservatory,  ma'am." 

"That  is  of  no  importance,  for  the  house  will  be 
lovely,  and  the  conservatory  is  to  supply  the  house.  I 
shall  want  more  flowers  in  two  days.  I  hope  you  will 
have  them  for  me." 

She  did  not  notice  either  his  distress  or  his  temper ; 
and  the  flowers  were  cut  again  on  the  second  day. 

With  equally  capable  hands  she  took  hold  of  the 
somewhat  neglected  village.  Guided  by  her  the  squire 
found  work  for  idle  men,  in  ways  he  had  never  dreamed 
of.  Mrs.  Atherton  saw  fields  that  required  draining; 
young  plantations  that  required  thinning;  old  timber 
that  ought  to  be  removed  and  cut  up  for  use ;  cottages 


208  LOVE  FOR   AN  HOUR. 

on  the  estate  that  wanted  whitewashing  and  thatching, 
and  she  said : 

"  What  is  the  use,  Rashleigh,  of  charity,  when  you 
can  give  work?  Work  is  like  mercy;  it  blesses  him 
that  gives  and  him  that  takes." 

In  October  Loida  was  married.  There  was  a  little 
discussion  about  the  place  proper  for  the  ceremony,  but 
it  was  speedily  settled  in  favor  of  Alderson  Bars.  It  was 
impossible  for  Dick's  mother  to  come  to  Atherton  Court ; 
she  found  any  number  of  reasons  rendering  it  impossi- 
ble ;  and  yet  it  was  surely  right  she  should  be  present 
at  her  son's  marriage  with  Loida.  The  two  women  had 
worked  and  hoped  together  for  Dick,  and  Loida  wished 
her  to  share  in  all  the  results  so  patiently  and  lovingly 
waited  for. 

And  at  Atherton  Dick  was  not  enthusiastically  wel- 
come. The  squire  was  not  proud  of  his  alliance.  He 
would  rather  that  the  sister  of  his  first  wife  had  married 
a  man  whose  past  could  give  an  enemy  no  advantage. 
He  thought  Loida  was  throwing  herself  away,  and  Dick 
was  sensitive  to  the  feeling.  Besides,  Tipham  Market 
church  was  Loida's  own  parish  church,  and  the  friends 
of  both  families  worshiped  there. 

So  Loida  went  to  Alderson  Bars  a  week  before  the 
wedding,  and  Francesca  went  with  her.  The  squire 
and  Mrs.  Atherton  arrived  in  time  to  take  part  in  the 
actual  ceremony,  and  they  did  not  remain  long  after  it. 
In  some  respects  there  was  an  air  of  disappointment 
about  the  festival.  Dick  and  Loida  were  too  quietly, 
solemnly  happy  for  the  typical  idea.  People  do  not 
work  and  wait  ten  years  for  a  joy,  and  then  take  it  with 
the  careless  enthusiasm  of  children.  But  Dick's  face 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  2OQ 

shone  with  rapture,  and  Loida,  in  her  bridal  white,  was 
like  a  fair  lily,  serene  and  still,  and  sweet  as  a  lily  from 
the  gardens  of  Paradise. 

It  was  while  the  bridal  party  stood  around  the  altar 
of  the  ancient  church  that  Mrs.  Atherton  was  first  for- 
cibly struck  by  the  appearance  of  Francesca.  She  was 
smiling,  but  Mrs.  Atherton  had  a  glimpse  of  the  heart 
behind  the  smile. 

"  That  little  girl  is  miserable,"  the  shrewd  woman  said 
to  herself,  "  and  I  suppose  it  is  that  lover  Rashleigh  told 
me  about.  What  was  it  he  said  ?  Did  he  not  go  away 
from  her  without  a  word  ?  Something  shabby  of  that 
kind  I  know  it  was.  It  is  time  I  looked  after  that  affair." 

But  she  never  found  it  easy  to  look  after  Francesca. 
She  was  sick  and  in  trouble,  and  she  took  every  oppor- 
tunity to  escape  to  the  solitude  in  which  her  sorrow  was 
most  bearable.  Mrs.  Atherton  could  not  tell  whether 
this  was  a  natural  or  an  exceptional  attitude,  and  she 
felt  a  delicacy  in  discussing  it  with  her  husband.  It 
was  so  easy  to  appear  unkind ;  so  difficult  to  gain  con- 
fidence against  unspoken  prejudice.  Still  she  watched 
Francesca,  after  her  return  from  Loida's  marriage,  with 
an  interest  not  devoid  of  a  sincere  liking.  The  proud, 
shy,  quiet  girl  attracted  her,  because  she  was  sure  she 
was  neither  proud  nor  shy,  nor  yet  specially  quiet  by 
nature.  The  character  was  a  cloak,  assumed  to  repel 
or  to  conceal,  and  in  either  case  she  felt  sorry  for  so 
young  a  heart  thus  hiding  its  sorrow. 

Once  or  twice  she  said  to  the  squire : 

"  Do  you  think  Francesca  is  quite  well  ?  Is  she  as  gay 
and  glad  as  an  English  girl  in  her  position  ought  to  be  ?  " 

And  the  squire  looked  anxiously  at  his  child  and  pre- 


2IO  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

varicated  a  little  in  his  answer.  He  saw  the  change  in 
Francesca,  but,  in  the  first  place,  he  did  not  see  its  full 
extent  or  estimate  its  danger,  because  in  his  presence 
Francesca  was  at  her  highest  point.  For  this  was  the 
natural  attitude  of  a  proud  girl  who  feels  her  grief  is  not 
shared,  not  even  sympathized  with. 

Then,  again,  the  squire  really  believed  Francesca  was 
mentally  pouting.  First,  because  he  would  not  discuss 
Lancelot  with  her ;  secondly,  because  he  had  himself 
found  another  love  and  married.  The  supposition  was 
a  natural  one ;  but  even  if  the  squire  admitted  some 
justice  in  it,  he  was  a  little  angry  at  his  daughter  when 
he  considered  her  changed  air  and  manner.  And,  at 
the  last,  he  always  found  the  excuse  which  Francesca's 
love  for  Lancelot  gave  him ;  had  she  not  loved  so  un- 
wisely, so  extravagantly,  so  regardlessly  of  himself  and 
his  happiness,  he  never  would  have  gone  to  London, 
he  never  would  have  met  his  Clara.  If,  for  instance, 
Francesca  had  married  Almund  Idle,  he  would  have 
lived  and  died  a  widower,  content  with  her  happiness, 
and  finding  a  new  youth  in  her  children.  But  this 
and  that  and  the  other  had  happened,  and  by  the  time 
the  squire  had  considered  all  the  conditions,  he  was 
ready  to  leap  to  his  feet  and  emphasize  his  thoughts 
with  an  impatient  stamp,  and  so  away  for  comfort  to  his 
wife  or  his  business,  muttering : 

"It  was  Lancelot  here  and  there  and  everywhere. 
Lancelot  and  the  mill,  Lancelot  and  cotton  and  Mexico. 
It  was  Lancelot's  father  and  mother ;  it  was  a,  e,  i,  o, 
u,  and  sometimes  w  and  y — yea,  the  whole  alphabet  of 
worries ;  and  I  was  right  to  get  a  bit  of  comfort  to  my- 
self, and  I  am  glad  I  did  it." 


HOPE  AND    TWO    SAD   WOMEN.  211 

One  day,  some  time  after  the  new  year,  when  cotton 
was  beginning  to  be  plentiful,  and  mills  were  at  work 
again  all  over  the  country,  Mrs.  Atherton  said : 

"  Rashleigh,  I  have  been  in  the  village  to-day ;  it  is 
nearly  deserted  by  the  men.  They  have  tramped  off  to 
get  spinning  elsewhere  and  left  their  families  until  they 
can  send  for  them.  The  distress  is  very  great  still,  and 
I  say  now  what  I  said  at  first — give  them  work." 

"  But  how  can  I,  my  dear  Clara  ?  My  fields  and 
woods  are  already  clean  as  a  park  or  garden.  I  cannot 
make  work  much  longer." 

"  Yes,  you  can.  Open  that  fine  mill,  and  set  the  men 
and  the  women  to  spin  cotton." 

"  I  am  not  a  cotton-spinner,  and  the  mill  is  not  mine," 
said  the  squire,  in  a  decidedly  angry  voice.  They  were 
sitting  at  the  dinner-table,  and  he  lifted  the  decanter  and 
poured  out  another  glass  of  Chambertin,  and  so  tried  to 
turn  the  conversation.  But  Clara  was  persistent. 

"  Rent  the  mill." 

"  I  cannot,  Clara.  The  fellow  that  owns  it  went  off 
without  a  word  one  morning.  Nobody  knows  where  he 
went  to." 

Francesca's  face  flushed  scarlet,  and  she  stood  up  and 
said: 

"  Father,  '  the  fellow '  is  my  intended  husband.  I 
love  'the  fellow.'  I  believe  him  to  be  an  honorable 
gentleman  in  every  respect." 

Then,  with  considerable  passion,  she  pushed  her  chair 
aside  and  left  the  room. 

An  hour  afterward  Mrs.  Atherton  knocked  at  her  door. 

"  Francesca!  My  dear  Francesca,  let  me  come  in," 
she  pleaded. 


212  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Francesca  opened  the  door,  and,  holding  it,  stood 
looking  at  her  stepmother.  She  had  been  crying  until 
she  was  sick.  Her  face  was  piteous,  her  eyes  hope- 
less, but  she  had  told  herself  as  she  went  to  the  door : 
"  I  am  the  daughter  of  Atherton  and  the  lady  of  the 
manor.  I  will  not  let  this  stranger  either  pity  or  scold 
or  deceive  me." 

The  thought  gave  dignity  to  her  grief.  She  looked 
straight  at  her  visitor,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"  Francesca,  dear,  let  me  come  in.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you — to  comfort  you — to  advise  you." 

The  poor  girl  shook  her  head  at  the  mention  of  "  com- 
fort " ;  but  she  suffered  Mrs.  Atherton  to  enter.  She 
went  to  a  sofa  and  motioned  Francesca  to  sit  beside  her. 
With  some  reluctance  Francesca  did  so.  She  took  her 
hand.  It  was  cold  and  without  response.  The  fingers 
lay  limp  in  her  own. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Francesca,  I  named  the  mill.  I  have 
made  you  weep,  and  I  wish  only  to  make  you  happy. 
Do  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Say  Clara;  I  do  not  wish  you  to  call  me  '  mother.' 
I  am  not  your  mother;  no  one  ever  could  take  a 
mother's  place ;  but  I  am  your  friend,  your  true  friend 
Clara.  Tell  me  what  you  wish  me  to  do  for  you." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done.  But  for  all  that,  I 
am  miserable.  I  am  dying  of  grief,  and  nobody  sees 
it ;  and  I  fear  no  one — cares  for  me." 

"My  dear,  I  see — and  I  do  care." 

"  I  have  no  one  to  speak  to  now.  Even  before  Loida 
went  away  she  was  so  busy,  and  her  heart  was  so  full 
and  happy,  it  was  not  pleasant  to  trouble  her — and  she 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  213 

forgot  if  I  did  not  speak — and  I  was  humbled  and  sad- 
dened by  every  one's  neglect,  and  I  could  only  go  away 
and  be  silent.  My  heart  is  breaking.  I  feel  a  little 
weaker  constantly.  I  have  such  hopeless  days — such 
long,  weary  nights.  I  never  thought  that  life  could  be 
so  hard  to  bear.  I  want  to  shut  my  eyes  and  forget 
everything.  No,  I  do  not  want  to  forget  Lancelot." 

"  If  you  would  only  tell  me  about  him,  then  I  could 
talk  to  you,  and  we  could  consider  what  ought  to  be 
done.  Francesca,  my  dear,  I  was  once  very  deep  in 
sorrowful  love  myself.  I  wanted  to  die ;  and  the  man 
came  back  and  we  were  married,  and  in  three  months  I 
wished  he  had  never  come  back,  and  in  a  year  I  had 
left  him  forever.  When  he  died  I  was  glad." 

"  You  cannot  comfort  me  in  that  way,  Clara.  If  an 
angel  stood  there  and  said  there  was  anything  wrong, 
anything  unkind  in  Lancelot's  heart,  I  would  know  he 
was  an  evil  angel  full  of  malice  and  wickedness.  I  will 
tell  you  what  Lancelot  is ; "  and  then  she  did  what  Clara 
wanted  her  to  do,  opened  her  heart,  told  all  its  secret 
fear  and  doubt,  all  its  heart-wringing  uncertainty  and 
suspense.  "If  I  knew  where  he  was!  If  he  would 
only  write!  If  I  could  write  to  him!  If  I  durst  go 
and  find  him!"  These  "ifs"  were  the  thorns  and  nails 
of  her  poor  heart's  crucifixion.  "  But  I  am  a  fine  lady. 
I  cannot  move.  I  cannot  go  anywhere." 

"  If  we  only  knew  where  he  is,  Francesca,  I  would 
find  a  way  for  you  to  go  there." 

"  You  would  ?     You  really  would,  Clara  ?  " 

"Indeed  I  would.  There  are  few  men  like  your 
Lancelot.  He  ought  to  be  found  and  brought  home. 
I  am  going  to  have  his  mill  opened  and  set  to  work  if 


214  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

possible.  If  your  father  will  not  do  it,  I  have  lots  of 
money  of  my  own.  I  will  open  it.  It  is  a  shame  to 
see  such  a  fine  building  useless ;  such  wonderful  ma- 
chines rusting  away." 

And  then  the  poor  girl  cried  again,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  tried  to  hide  her  sobs  in  her  heart ; 
and  Clara  put  her  arm  round  the  slender  form  trembling 
and  shaking  in  its  storm  of  sorrow ;  and  after  awhile 
gently  uncovered  the  wet,  white  face  and  kissed  it. 

"  Listen,  Francesca !  There  are  men  whose  business 
it  is  to  find  out  hidden  things  and  to  discover  where  lost 
people  go  to.  You  say  Lancelot  landed  in  Vera  Cruz 
from  the  bark  Thetis.  I  am  going  to  send  one  of  these 
men  across  the  Atlantic  to  Vera  Cruz.  I  will  give  him 
orders  to  find  Lancelot  if  he  be  in  this  world.  Now 
you  can  write  as  long  and  as  sweet  a  letter  as  you  desire 
to  your  lover ;  this  man  shall  take  it  with  him.  And 
whatever  else  you  say,  tell  Lancelot  he  must  come  home. 
Tell  him  his  honor,  his  mother's  honor,  your  life,  depend 
upon  his  coming." 

"His  honor!  I  do  not  think  that  'honor'  is  con- 
cerned in  his  absence." 

"  My  dear,  do  not  stand  upon  words.  You  have  to 
use  hyperboles  to  move  a  man  at  all.  Some  men  care 
for  '  honor '  that  are  not  touched  by  love  or  happiness, 
or  even  death.  In  love  and  war  all  expedients  are  Idw- 
ful.  The .  word  '  honor '  seems  to  me  a  very  honorable 
expedient.  Now,  write  your  letter  to  Lancelot,  and  I 
will  go  and  write  to  Captain  Benton.  Both  letters  will 
leave  here  to-morrow  morning,  and  twenty-four  hours 
afterward  Captain  Benton  will  be  on  the  way  to  Mexico. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  plan,  dear  ?  " 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  215 

"  It  is  so  wonderful,  so  comforting,  so  quick !  I  can- 
not take  it  in.  I  cannot  understand  it  all." 

"  Never  mind  about  '  understanding  '  now.  You  will 
have  time  to  understand  while  Benton  is  going  about  the 
business.  Have  you  pen,  ink,  and  paper?  Good. 
Then  go  to  work.  When  you  do  not  know  what  to  do 
then  is  the  very  time  to  do  something.  When  you  can- 
not bear  a  thing  any  longer,  then  stop  bearing,  and  make 
a  move  in  one  direction  or  another.  The  direction  is 
evidently  Mexico.  Mr.  Alderson  has  been  in  Mexico ; 
why  did  you  not  set  him  to  work?  He  must  know 
people  there.  He  could  surely  have  written  some  let- 
ters— made  some  inquiries  ?  " 

"  Dick  was  so  taken  up  with  Loida — and  other  things. 
I  did  not  like  to  trouble  them.  They  did  not  know  I 
was  suffering  so  much.  They  did  not  see." 

"  Lovers  see  nothing  but  each  other.  They  are  an 
abominably  selfish  crowd.  I  know  because  I  have  been 
there.  There  ought  to  be  churches  specially  for  them, 
and  constant  sermons  on  '  seeking  not  one's  own,'  and  a 
lovers'  litany,  with  an  imploration  to  be  delivered  from 
selfishness." 

"  Have  I  been  selfish  ?  " 

"  Perhaps — and  very  unselfish  also.  I  do  not  think 
I  could  have  been  so  patient  and  smiling  and  ladylike 
with  other  lovers  as  you  have  been.  In  most  respects 
you  have  behaved  admirably.  It  takes  a  fine,  well-bred 
nature  to  bear.  A  very  vulgar  one  can  do" 

However,  it  is  very  certain  that  the  only  way  out  of 
the  Slough  of  Despond  is  by  action.  It  is  like  move- 
ment in  a  nightmare ;  stir  under  the  incubus  and  it  is 
gone.  And  though  Francesca's  despairing  grief  was 


2l6  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

not  removed  by  action,'it  was  sensibly  lightened.  There 
was  a  movement  made  which  admitted  of  hope's  en- 
trance. Something  was  being  done  for  Lancelot,  and 
it  was  not  all  simple  endurance.  There  was  also  great 
comfort  in  Clara's  sympathy.  It  was  an  active,  loving 
sympathy ;  it  resolved  itself  always  into  "  what  can  be 
done  ? "  If  this  effort  fails  what  is  the  next  move  ?  She 
never  thought  of  advising  Francesca  to  forget  her  sor- 
row, or  even  to  submit  to  it.  The  idea  of  resistance,  of 
getting  the  better  of  adverse  circumstances,  was  funda- 
mental in  Clara's  character. 

Consequently,  even  when  Captain  Benton  had  gone 
to  Mexico,  she  was  still  mentally  busy  in  forecasting 
probabilities  and  preparing  to  meet  them.  And  she 
very  soon  found  out  two  weak  places  in  their  first  move- 
ment. 

"  You  ought  to  have  seen  Mrs.  Leigh  before  we  sent 
Benton,"  she  said  to  Francesca,  "  and  we  ought  to  have 
taken  Dick  Alderson  into  our  confidence.  Mrs.  Leigh 
may  have  had  another  letter.  Dick  could  have  given 
advice  worth  having.  However,  we  can  send  any  in- 
formation worth  sending  after  the  captain.  When  did 
you  see  Mrs.  Leigh  last,  Francesca  ? " 

"  It  is  nearly  half  a  year  ago." 

"  You  poor  child !  No  word  for  half  a  year?  And 
no  one  remembered  your  anxiety.  What  a  selfish  set  of 
barbarians  we  have  been!  It  is  possible  Mrs.  Leigh 
has  had  several  letters.  And  we  may  have  sent  Benton 
in  a  wrong  direction." 

"  How  unfortunate ! " 

"  Not  worth  fretting  over.  If  we  have,  then  we  must 
send  some  one  in  the  right  direction  immediately.  Do 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  21 7 

not  look  so  hopeless  and  frightened.  I  have  plenty  of 
money  that  ought  to  be  on  the  move.  Money  is  made 
round  in  order  that  it  may  roll.  The  first  thing  is  to  see 
Mrs.  Leigh.  Suppose  we  go  to  Idleholme  to-morrow. 
We  owe  Squire  Idle  a  visit.  Your  father  may  not  wish 
to  go.  If  so,  the  way  to  Leigh  is  plain  and  open.  If 
he  is  so  contradictious  as  to  feel  his  social  obligations 
pressing,  and  I  dare  say  he  will  be  so  very  natural,  then 
we  must  seize  the  best  opportunity  that  offers." 

"  And  if  none  offers  ?  " 

"Then  we  must  make  one." 

Before  the  subject  could  be  further  discussed,  Squire 
Atherton  entered.  He  was  going  to  covert,  and  was 
dressed  in  a  dashing  Milton-Mowbray  uniform  of  scarlet 
and  green.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  worn  it  since 
his  marriage,  and  he  came  into  the  room  with  a  little 
conscious  satisfaction  in  his  own  appearance.  Certainly 
he  looked  in  it  a  very  proper  English  squire,  and  Clara 
was  enthusiastic  in  her  approval.  He  blushed  like  a 
great,  happy  school-boy  to  her  compliments,  and  asked 
both  ladies  to  drive  to  cover  and  see  the  meet. 

"  We  shall  find  a  good  dog-fox  at  Ashley  pasture,  and 
get  away  with  him  up  wind.  There  will  be  some  crack 
riders  present,  Clara.  Francesca  knows;  don't  you, 
little  girl!" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  answered,  with  a  pretty  flush  com- 
ing into  her  cheeks.  "  Who  can  ride  like  Squire  Ather- 
ton? Clara,  there  is  a  bullfinch  hedge  of  fifty  years' 
growth  on  Ashley  pasture.  It  is  so  high  that  no  horse 
can  clear  it,  but  Squire  Atherton  charges  it  at  full  speed 
and  gets  to  the  other  side,  while  the  bushes  close  after 
him  and  his  horse  as  if  a  bird  had  hopped  through 


2l8  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

them.  If  the  fox  goes  that  way,  would  you  not  like  to 
see  my  father  go  through  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Clara,  with  a  comical  shake  of  her 
head.  "  I  do  not  care  about  seeing  your  father  go 
through  a  hedge.  And  my  sympathies  are  with  the  fox. 
I  think  it  is  a  pity  to  teach  such  fine  hounds  such  bad 
•ways." 

"  Bless  thee,  Clara,  it  is  as  natural  for  dogs  to  hunt 
foxes  as  it  is  for  men  to  hunt  them.  I  don't  know  a 
much  finer  sight  than  a  good  pack  all  together,  with 
heads  up  and  tails  down.  My  word!  You'd  think 
then  that  my  Crafty  and  Gypsy  and  Gaylass  and  the 
rest  of  them  were  well  worth  the  painting.  Such  scent 
and  such  sense!  Fine  pedigrees!  Every  one  of  them 
knew  by  instinct  that  a  sheep  was  too  sacred  an  animal 
for  them  even  to  look  at ;  but  I  shall  be  late  if  I  go  on 
talking  in  this  way.  Will  you  go  ?  I  can  send  Crocker 
with  the  trap  in  ten  minutes." 

"  No,  Rashleigh,  we  will  not  go  this  morning.  I 
want  to  go  to  Idleholme  to-morrow.  We  owe  a  visit 
there  that  can  no  longer  be  delayed.  Will  you  go  with 
us?" 

"  Yes.  I  ought  to  go.  My  friend  Thomas  Idle  is 
always  glad  to  see  me.  Yes,  I  will  go,  Clara.  Did  you 
say  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  To-morrow.     We  shall  stay  all  night,  of  course." 

"  Very  well.  To-morrow  I  am  at'  your  service.  To- 
day—  " 

"  You  hunt  a  dog-fox.  It  seems  to  take  quite  a  num- 
ber of  men  and  dogs  to  kill  one  dog-fox.  I  should  like 
to  see  the  fox  better  than  the  men.  Good-morning, 
Rashleigh." 


HOPE  AND    Tll'O  SAD   WOMEN.  2ig 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you,  Francesca,  that  the  squire  would 
be  sure  to  wish  to  see  his  friend  Thomas  Idle  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  similar  presentiment,  Clara." 

"  My  dear,  there  is  no  need  of '  presentiments '  about  a 
man's  movements.  If  you  know  him  ever  so  little,  you 
may  reckon  upon  his  '  whys '  and  '  wherefores '  as  cer- 
tainly as  a  sum  in  simple  addition.  How  far  is  Leigh 
Farm  from  Idleholme  ?  " 

"  Six  miles  or  thereabouts.  We  pass  it.  The  large 
gates  are  on  the  highway." 

"  Then  we  must  go  direct  to  Idleholme,  stay  there  all 
night,  and  the  following  morning  I  will  ask  Mrs.  Idle  to 
let  a  man  drive  you  to  Leigh.  Your  father  and  Squire 
Idle  will  doubtless  be  in  the  stables  or  kennels ;  that  is 
their  usual  after-breakfast  visit.  You  can  dismiss  the 
Idleholme  man  at  Leigh,  and  as  we  shall  not  leave  until 
afternoon  lunch,  you  will  have  several  hours  with  Lance- 
lot's mother." 

"  Then  you  will  call  for  me  as  you  return  to  Ather- 
ton  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Try  and  be  at  the  gate,  so  that  your  father 
may  have  no  time  to  grumble  and  forecast  darkness  and 
danger  and  tribulations  of  all  kinds." 

The  plan  was  so  simple  that  it  was  scarcely  possible 
for  it  to  miscarry.  The  Atherton  party  arrived  at  Idle- 
holme  the  following  afternoon,  and  met  a  hearty  wel- 
come. Almund  was  at  home,  and  there  was  a  brilliant 
evening.  For  the  new  mistress  of  Atherton  exerted 
herself  to  the  utmost,  and  met  in  Almund  a  spirit  bright 
enough  to  stimulate  her  pleasantries  and  also  to  under- 
stand them.  Yet  his  attentions  to  Squire  Atherton's 
wife  did  not  interfere  with  the  young  man's  devotion  to 


220  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Francesca ;  and  the  two  old  men  watched  it  with  appreci- 
ative glances ;  they  thought  no  one  read  but  themselves. 

So  every  one  was  in  a  happy  temper ;  even  Francesca 
threw  off  her  depression,  and  played  accompaniments  to 
Clara's  singing,  and  smiled  sweetly  to  Almund's  confi- 
dences, for  she  was  thinking  of  the  morning,  and  that 
possibly  in  a  few  hours  she  would  hear  something  of 
Lancelot. 

It  was  fortunately  a  fine  morning,  though  very  cold. 
There  had  been  a  little  snow,  but  not  sufficient  to  hinder 
rapid  driving ;  and  as  soon  as  the  two  squires  had  trailed 
off  to  the  stables,  with  their  pipes  between  their  lips  and 
half  a  dozen  hounds  at  their  heels,  Mrs.  Atherton  said  a 
few  words  to  Mrs.  Idle,  and  before  Francesca  was  quite 
ready,  a  light  gig  was  waiting  for  her. 

"  We  shall  call  for  you  about  two  o'clock ;  be  waiting 
for  us :  "  and  Clara  drew  the  pretty,  pale  face  down  to 
her  own,  and  with  whispered  good  wishes  kissed  the 
girl  and  sent  her  away.  And  as  Almund  had  gone  into 
retirement,  in  order  to  smoke  his  first  cigar  in  contem- 
plative peace,  no  one  but  Clara  saw  Francesca  depart 
on  her  loving  errand. 

The  horse  was  a  fine  roadster,  and  the  man  a  capital 
driver ;  in  a  very  short  time  she  was  at  the  large  gates 
of  Leigh  Farm.  They  were  rusty  with  disuse,  and  only 
moved  with  considerable  effort ;  but  when  they  had 
been  opened  sufficiently  for  her  entrance,  she  sent  the 
servant  back  to  Idleholme.  His  name  was  Jonathan 
Child,  and  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  silent,  self- 
ish fellow ;  but  when  Francesca  gave  him  a  crown,  the 
touch  of  the  silver  went  at  once  to  his  nervous  center, 
and  awoke  what  good  feeling  he  possessed. 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  221 

"  Miss,"  he  said,  as  he  gathered  up  his  reins  again — . 
"  Miss —  Be  you  going  in  there,  miss  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Into  t'  varry  house,  miss  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't,  if  I  was  you." 

He  even  turned  his  head  to  watch  the  slight  figure 
walking  quickly  up  the  long,  winding  avenue.  And 
Francesca  felt  the  chill  of  the  implied  warning  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  house.  It  was  hardly  possible  to 
realize  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  half  a  year. 
Certainly  there  was  some  allowance  to  be  made  for  the 
want  of  the  summer's  leaves  and  flowers  and  sunshine, 
but  even  admitting  this  natural  reason,  there  was  a 
change  that  the  season  was  not  responsible  for. 

The  place  looked  deserted.  The  avenue  was  totally 
neglected.  Long,  dead  grass  clung  around  her  ankles, 
and  her  feet  sunk  in  the  sodden  masses  of  decaying 
leaves.  There  are  moments  when  matter  weighs  upon 
us  ;  when  it  is  as  mysterious  and  unsympathetic  as  spirit. 
The  hard  earth,  the  dead  leaves,  the  bare,  dripping 
branches  overhead,  seemed  a  part  of  her  heavy  heart. 
And  why  were  they  there  at  all  ?  When  ?  How  ?  What 
for  ?  No  answer.  No  understanding  of  anything.  The 
sadness  that  comes  from  sorrow  endured  without  avail, 
invaded  and,  before  she  reached  the  door,  conquered  her. 

The  great  white  door!  How  blank  and  cold  and 
unresponsive  it  looked !  Indeed,  she  had  to  give  up  all 
attempts  to  enter  by  it,  and  go  around  the  building  to 
the  smaller  door  in  the  other  side.  It  was  easily  moved 
by  an  ordinary  latch ;  and  after  knocking  several  times 
without  being  answered,  Francesca  went  in.  All  was 


222  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

silent  as  the  grave.  She  went  to  the  room  with  which 
she  was  familiar.  Martha  Leigh  was  there.  There 
was  a  little  fire  in  the  grate,  and  she  was  bending  over 
it.  She  lifted  her  head  as  Francesca  entered,  and  looked 
at  her  with  a  quick  inquiry ;  then,  divining  her  disap- 
pointment, let  her  head  fall  down  again. 

"  Mother,  may  I  come  to  you  ? " 

"  Ay,  come  thy  ways  in.     It  is  a  cold  day." 

"  Have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  suffer  a  bit.  Rheumatism.  If  Death  would 
but  come  and  deliver  me,  I'd  make  him  freely  welcome. 
I  would  that." 

Then  Francesca  told  her  what  Mrs.  Atherton  had 
done ;  but  she  listened  without  any  enthusiasm,  and  she 
said,  with  an  air  of  despair : 

"  If  love  can't  bring  him  home ;  if  such  prayers  and 
cries  as  I  send  after  him  can't  bring  him  home — willing 
or  not  willing — does  ta  really  think  a  bit  of  money  can 
do  it  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Atherton  says  money  can  do  everything." 

"  She  is  far  wrong.  It  can  promise  everything,  but  it 
is  a  long  way  between  promising  and  heving — a  varry 
long  way  indeed." 

Mrs.  Leigh  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  fire.  Francesca 
put  her  little  wet  feet  toward  its  blaze.  She  wondered 
Martha  did  not  notice  how  wet  they  were ;  wondered 
that  she  did  not  offer  her  any  refreshment.  For  hospi- 
tality was  second  nature  with  Martha  Leigh.  She  must 
have  got  far  off  from  life  in  some  way  to  forget  its 
claims. 

After  a  few  minutes,  Francesca  asked  if  she  might  go 
up  to  Lancelot's  room. 


HOPE  AND    TWO  SAD   WOMEN.  22$ 

"  Does  ta  want  to  see  his  picture  ? " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Here  is  the  key.  Go  thy  ways,  poor  lass.  But 
don't  thee  touch  t'  piano.  I  couldn't  abide  to  hear  it. 
I  hevn't  got  the  mournful  music  thou  made  on  it  out  of 
my  ears  yet.  Don't  thee  touch  a  note." 

"  I  will  not.     I  only  want  to  see  Lancelot's  face." 

"  If  ta  loved  him  as  I  love  him,  thou  wouldn't  need  a 
bit  o'  painted  canvas  to  see  his  face.  Why-a!  I  see 
the  lad  go  in  and  out  ivery  hour  of  the  day.  I  see  him 
all  night  long.  Sleeping  or  waking,  I  see  him." 

She  rose  up,  as  if  to  go  with  Francesca,  but  sat  down 
again.  She  was  suffering  from  rheumatism  severely, 
and  the  house  was  cold  and  damp  enough  to  induce  the 
malady.  So  Francesca  went  alone.  She  opened  the 
wooden  shutters  of  one  window,  and  knelt  down  before 
the  pictured  face.  No  painted  saint  had  ever  truer  and 
purer  worship.  She  kissed  the  smiling  lips  as  the  dead 
are  kissed.  She  kissed  the  beaming  eyes  as  if  she  was 
closing  them  forever.  She  wept  before  her  lover  with 
that  passion  of  grief  which  comes  from  long  suppression. 
No  one  there  could  see  or  hear  her  heart  breaking. 
She  could  lament  and  wring  her  hands  and  cry  out,  as 
she  longed  to  cry  : 

"  O  Lancelot !  Lancelot !  How  gladly  would  I  have 
gone  with  you!  Oh,  my  love!  My  love!  My  love!" 

No  one  interfered  with  her  sorrowful  visit.  She  wept 
her  anguish  in  some  measure  away,  and  went  down- 
stairs calmed  and  comforted.  Martha  had  spread  a 
little  table  and  made  up  the  fire.  She  pointed  to  the 
teapot  and  the  loaf,  and  permitted  her  to  wait  upon 
herself. 


224  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  I  sent  away  all  the  servants  at  the  end  of  the 
year,"  she  said ;  "  ay,  a  bit  before  it.  A  bad,  wasteful, 
grumbling  lot  as  iver  was.  I  was  glad  to  be  rid  of 
them." 

"  Do  you  live  here  alone  ? " 

"  I  live  here — but  not  alone.  How  many  men  and 
women  hev  lived  here  before  me,  does  ta  think  ?  I  hev 
plenty  of  company.  We  are  varry  thick  with  one  an- 
other— varry  good  friends.  They  know  I  have  done 
right  to  Leigh.  They  are  satisfied.  Stephen  Leigh  hes 
found  out,  and  Lancelot  Leigh  will  find  out.  There  is 
no  need  to  hurry.  The  '  time  to  come '  is  a  long  year — 
it  is  that.  I  hev  something  to  ask  of  thee." 

"  I  will  do  anything  you  ask  me,  if  it  be  possible." 

"  What  for  should  thou  ?  " 

"  You  are  Lancelot's  mother.     I  love  you." 

"  I  am  a  crabbed,  queer  old  woman ;  how  can  ta  love 
me?" 

"  I  love  you.  What  is  the  use  of  asking  '  why '  or 
'how'?" 

"  To  be  sure.  Listen,  then.  I  am  going  the  way  of 
all  the  Leighs  varry  soon.  Don't  thee  say  '  no '  or  think 
I  want  comfort.  I  do  not.  I  want  to  die.  I'll  shake 
hands  with  Death,  and  welcome  him.  There  is  only 
one  thing  I  want  to  live  for.  I  want  to  keep  possession 
till  Lancelot  comes  home.  If  I  die  before  he  comes, 
thou  must  try  and  find  him ;  try  and  hear  from  him ; 
thou  must  hear  from  him  whether  or  not.  Dost  thou  un- 
derstand ? — whether  or  not" 

"  I  shall  hear  from  him.     I  feel  certain  of  it." 

"  Ay,  thou  wilt  hear — for  if  there  is  no  other  way,  / 
will  come  and  tell  thee.  Mind  that!  As  sure  as  I  am 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  22$ 

a  living  spirit,  I  will  come  and  tell  thee  where  he  is. 
For  he  must  let  the  world  know  he  is  alive." 

"  What  has  the  world  to  do  with  Lancelot's  life  or 
death  ? " 

"  If  Lancelot  were  dead,  Sally  Wood  of  Wood  Hall, 
eldest  daughter  of  my  husband's  eldest  sister,  is  the  next 
heir.  And  what  does  ta  think?  Joshua  Newby  is 
courting  her.  Newby  says  he  is  bound  to  hev  Leigh, 
either  by  wedding  or  deading,  if  gold  willn't  do  it ;  and 
I  hev  told  him,  he  niver  shall  hev  the  right  to  enter 
Leigh.  But  does  ta  see  what  the  scoundrel  is  after? 
His  son  will  wed  Sally  Wood,  and  then  he  will  buy  the 
right  from  Sally,  and  come  in  here,  and  spread  himsen 
before  the  living  and  the  dead,  as  master  of  Leigh.  I 
could  not  bide  that,  neither  for  the  love  of  heaven  nor 
the  fear  of  hell.  I  would  come  back  and  slay  him, 
someway.  I  would!  I  would!  So  thou  must  keep 
Lancelot  in  the  land  of  the  living.  That  is  thy  part. 
Thou  understands  ?  " 

"Yes,  mother." 

"  If  any  one  says,  '  Lancelot  is  dead,'  threep  them 
down  as  liars.  Leigh  House  must  stand  empty  till  a 
Leigh  comes  to  dwell  in  it.  It  niver  hes  gone  in  the 
female  line,  and  it  niver  shall." 

The  subject  excited  her  very  much,  and  Francesca 
tried  to  pass  it  over,  and  talk  of  Martha's  own  condi- 
tion. 

"You  ought,  for  Lancelot's  sake,"  she  said,  "to 
live,  and  so  take  care  of  yourself.  If  Lancelot  could 
see  you  and  his  home  now,  how  distressed  he  would 
be!" 

"Thorpe  says  I  hevn't  long  to  live.     If  I  \vanted  to 


226  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

live,  I  shouldn't  die ;  but  I  don't  want  to  live.  I  can 
do  a  deal  more  for  Leigh  out  of  the  body  than  in  it." 

"  Should  you  not  have  more  warmth,  more  comforts, 
a  servant  to  wait  upon  you  ?  " 

"  I  live  as  I  want  to  live.  I  hev  plenty  of  money. 
I  need  not  grudge  mysen  any  comfort — and  I  don't. 
But  heat  or  cold,  comfort  or  discomfort,  when  you  are 
companying  with  death  and  racked  with  pain — what 
does  it  signify?  Nothing  at  all."  She  was  silent  a 
little,  and  then  she  asked  suddenly : 

"Thou  means  to  marry  Lancelot  when  he  comes 
back  ? " 

"  Yes.     I  mean  to  marry  no  one  else." 

"  I  will  be  glad  to  think  of  thee  here.  I  like  thee  now. 
I  wish  I  hed  always  liked  thee  ;  things  might  hev  been 
a  good  bit  different.  Come  here  as  often  as  ta  can, 
when  ta  is  married  to  Lancelot.  I  shall  know  it,  I'm 
sure,  and  I  will  give  thee  a  blessing." 

So  they  talked  until  it  was  near  two  o'clock.  Then 
Francesca  bid  her  "  Good-bye."  She  did  not  wish  to 
make  Clara's  conciliation  harder  than  need  be,  and  she 
walked  in  the  avenue  until  she  heard  the  Atherton  car- 
riage approaching.  It  stopped  at  the  gates  of  Leigh 
House,  and  Clara  met  her  with  that  effusiveness  of 
welcome  which  indicated  a  prior  dispute.  The  squire 
was  undoubtedly  angry,  but  he  folded  the  carriage 
wraps  tenderly  round  his  daughter,  and  felt  a  painful 
sense  of  heartache  when  he  saw  how  wan  and  sorrow- 
ful she  looked. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Leigh  ?  " 

It  took  him  a  few  moments  to  compel  himself  to  this 
courteous  inquiry,  but  the  kindness  done,  he  felt  its 


HOPE  AND    TWO   SAD   WOMEN.  22J 

influence ;  and  when  Francesca  answered,  "  She  is 
dying,  alone,  without  a  friend,  and  careless  of  all  help 
or  comfort,"  he  felt  honestly  sorry. 

"  She  is  a  very  proud,  sensitive  woman,"  he  said, 
"  She  was  very  rude  to  me  once,  but  she  did  not  know. 
It  was  the  day  of  the  funeral.  I  thought  her  slightly — 
off  her  judgment.  God  pity  her!  " 

And  even  while  the  kindly  prayer  was  uttering, 
Martha,  half-unconsciously,  was  making  for  herself  the 
same  petition : 

"God  pity  me!  I  meant  to  do  right!  God  pity 
me  if  I  hev  done  sinfully ! " 

For  her  punishment  had  become  almost  unbearable. 
The  silence  of  her  son  was  a  cruel  sorrow,  but  if  the 
law  should  construe  this  silence  as  death,  and  suffer  the 
next  heir  even  a  partial  or  limited  possession,  how  could 
she  bear  it  f  She  did  not  like  her  niece  Sally ;  she  hated 
young  Newby.  Sometimes  she  felt  she  could  live  in 
perpetual  agony,  only  to  live  and  keep  Leigh  House 
until  her  son  came  home  to  claim  it.  Then  a  miserable 
doubt  invaded  even  this  resignation.  Would  Lancelot 
live  in  it  if  he  came  back  ?  Perhaps  not.  Still,  his 
right  would  keep  others  out.  And  she  had  a  hope  that 
Francesca  understood  and  would  carry  out  her  desires. 

But  what  miseries  sat  in  the  lonely  house  with  the 
lonely  woman.  She  fought  them  with  all  her  power ; 
but  intolerable  pains  and  intolerable  despairs  filled  her 
with  mortal  and  immortal  suffering.  The  house  per- 
meated with  such  influences  took  on,  as  a  countenance 
would,  an  expression  of  being  haunted.  An  unhappy 
atmosphere  was  reflected  from  it,  and  at  night  its  one 
feeble  light  in  an  upper  room  thrilled  every  heart  thaJ 


228  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

looked  toward  the  forlorn  dwelling  with  pity  and  with 
terror.  What  Martha  Leigh  was  doing  there  and  what 
she  was  enduring,  no  one  knew.  She  made  no  com- 
plaint, and  asked  for  no  human  help.  In  moments  of 
intolerable  anguish  it  was  God  she  spoke  to.  It  was 
to  God  only  she  cried :  "  Pity  me  !  Pity  me  !  Re- 
member that  I  am  but  dust! " 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

MARTHA    LEIGH   ATTAINS    UNTO    PEACE, 

A  Soul  .   .   . 

Joying  to  find  herself  alive, 
Lord  over  nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth, 

Lord  of  the  senses  five. — Tennyson. 

We  hurry  to  the  river  we  must  cross, 

And  swifter  downward  every  footstep  wends ; 

Happy,  who  reach  it  ere  they  count  the  loss 

Of  half  their  faculties  and  half  their  friends. — Landor. 

A  LIFE  filled  with  duty  may  be  a  very  noble  life,  but 
II  the  heart  craves  some  tender  resting-places  built 
by  love,  and  wanting  them,  duty  is  very  like  a  day  of 
sunshine,  or  an  orchard  without  singing  birds.  It  was 
these  little  resting-places  built  by  love  and  sympathy 
that  made  life  endurable  to  Francesca  during  the  fol- 
lowing weeks.  Her  hopeful  conversations  with  Clara 
— the  tears  she  could  shed  in  her  company — the  letters 
sent  here  and  there  for  information — the  things  supplied 
topics  of  conversation  that  touched  Lancelot,  and  made 
tangible  sources  of  comfort  and  compassionate  inter- 
change of  feeling,  and  thus  enabled  the  unhappy  girl  to 
bear  the  long  recurring  days  that  brought  her  yet  no 
tidings  of  her  lover. 

They  were  not  days,  however,  devoid  of  interest  in 
other  directions.  Clara  was  moving  them  in  many  re- 
spects to  wise  and  kindly  ends ;  for,  from  her  first  com- 


230  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

ing  to  Atherton,  she  had  been  grieved  by  the  desolation 
of  the  village  and  the  stagnation  of  interests  which 
ought  to  have  been  working  steadily  for  the  good  of 
all.  The  squire  laid  the  blame  on  the  war,  and  felt 
himself  easy  in  thus  shifting  the  responsibility.  It  was 
not  pleasant,  therefore,  to  have  Clara  continually  intro- 
ducing an  unpleasant  subject. 

"  That  mill  ought  to  be  opened,  Rashleigh,"  she  said 
again  one  day,  as  they  rode  through  the  village  together. 
"Look  at  those  cottages  standing  empty." 

"  I  do  look  at  them  very  often,"  answered  the  squire, 
with  some  temper.  "  I  spent  a  great  deal  of  money 
building  those  cottages,  and  while  the  mill  was  running 
the  rents  were  worth  gathering.  Now  they  are  going 
to  ruin,  or  they  are  sheltering  some  miserable  family 
whose  head  has  gone  to  Oldham  or  Clitheroe — or  even 
to  America,  in  search  of  work.  I  look  at  them  very 
often,  Clara." 

"  Open  the  mill,  Rashleigh." 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  not  mine,  Clara.  It  belongs  to  that 
young  man  whom  Francesca  is  killing  herself  about." 

"  You  ought  not  to  speak  of  Miss  Atherton  as  killing 
herself ;  though  I  suppose  we  all  do  kill  ourselves,  in 
some  way  or  other,  eating,  drinking,  loving,  fretting, 
working,  even  hunting.  Squire  Foxly  chose  hunting. 
But  I  am  talking  about  the  idle  mill  and  the  empty  cot- 
tages. I  should  rent  the  mill,  if  I  were  you,  and  set 
every  loom  to  work.  I  do  not  like  to  see  Atherton  vil- 
lage so  mournful  and  poverty-stricken." 

"  It  is  poverty-stricken ;  there  are  so  many  people 
here  who  have  no  business  here." 

"  Then  find  business  for  them.     Open  the  mill." 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     231 

"  Clara,  if  I  did  not  love  you  so  much,  I  should  be 
angry  at  this  monotonous  cry  of  yours.  Can  you  not 
understand  that  I  should  feel  it  a  great  degradation  to 
become  a  cotton-spinner,  a  mere  trader  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  understand  it  at  all.  Why  should  it  be 
more  degrading  to  spin  cotton  to  clothe  people  than  to 
grow  wheat  to  feed  them  ?  The  occupations  seem  to 
me  equally  honorable.  As  for  trading,  it  is  the  most 
ancient,  honorable,  and  enterprising  of  occupations." 

"The  agricultural  and  pastoral  life  stands  higher, 
Clara." 

"  Then  it  ought  not  to  stand  higher.  And  you  have 
too  much  sense  to  think  it  does." 

"  Its  antiquity — " 

"  Antiquity  is  worn  out.  Besides,  if  antiquity  is  worth 
anything,  trading  has  plenty  of  it.  Those  agricultural 
patriarchs,  counting  their  sheep  and  oxen  and  squab- 
bling about  water-holes  in  the  desert,  are  commonplace 
enough  put  against  the  great  merchant  companies  from 
Midian  traveling  down  into  Egypt  with  camels  and 
swordsmen  and  all  kinds  of  wealth.  Rashleigh,  I  have 
heard  with  considerable  weariness  your  monotonous 
cry  about  doing  your  duty  by  the  land.  Well,  sir, 
you  are  neglecting  your  duty  shamefully;  you  ought 
to  double  the  value  of  every  foot  of  land  in  Atherton 
village." 

"  There  are  certain  prejudices,  Clara — " 

"  I  am  sure  you  have  strength  of  character  enough 
to  follow  your  convictions  and  your  interests,  and  let 
'  certain  prejudices'  go  to  the  limbo  appointed  for  such 
useless  lumber.  I  should  rent  the  mill,  if  I  were  you ; 
then  you  can  rent  your  empty  cottages  and  make  every 


232  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

one  happy  and  Squire  Atherton  rich.  Mr.  Horsfall  has 
begun  to  spin  cotton." 

"  I  do  not  indorse  Mr.  HorsfalPs  opinions." 

"Squire  Drayton  is  vaporing  about  ' landed  gentle- 
men '  and  coming  to  you  to  borrow  money.  I  do  not 
suppose  you  indorse  Squire  Drayton's  opinions.  You 
see,  you  could  rent  the  mill  from  Mr.  Leigh's  lawyer, 
and  when  Mr.  Leigh  returns  he  will  doubtless  relieve 
you  in  a  very  profitable  way  of  your  responsibility.  I 
have  such  a  fine  idea  of  the  plan,  that  if  you  decline  it, 
I  think  I  shall  speculate  myself.  '  Clara  Mott  Ather- 
ton, Cotton  Spinner,'  would  not  be  a  bad  name  for  a 
firm.  I  have  a  lot  of  money  as  good  as  idle." 

Squire  Atherton  looked  at  his  wife  with  some  anxiety. 
He  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  in  earnest  or  not. 
Clara  made  the  impossible  thing  happen  so  often.  Her 
face  was  speculative  and  thoughtful;  she  was  smiling, 
and  yet  she  appeared  to  be  mentally  adding  up  a  sum. 
He  thought  it  best  to  turn  the  suggestion  into  an  unmis- 
takable and  preposterous  joke,  and  she  only  smiled  a 
little  more,  and  said,  with  a  nod  of  her  head :  "  You 
will  see." 

And  no  man's  heart  is  proof  against  the  continual 
drop,  drop  of  an  idea.  The  idea  either  wins  the  heart 
or  hammers  it  hard  as  iron.  Squire  Atherton's  heart 
could  not  be  hard  to  his  wife's  reasoning,  and  she  taught 
him  such  clever  ways  of  answering  and  combating  prej- 
udices that  he  soon  felt  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  provoking 
an  antagonist  to  conflict.  He  was  sure  of  victory,  for 
he  never  doubted  his  own  arguments,  and  he  never  sus- 
pected his  opponent  had  any  argument  worth  consider- 
ing. Clara  taught  him  the  word  "  obsolete,"  and  he 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     233 

blandly  defined  all  old  customs  and  prejudices  by  that 
word.  She  led  him  to  have  a  special  contempt  for  that 
condition  she  called  "  behind  the  times  "  ;  and  so  glori- 
fied the  present  era,  with  all  its  progressive  thought  and 
movements,  that  Squire  Atherton,  in  adopting  them, 
conceived  a  huge  respect  for  himself  as  being  a  man 
greatly  in  advance  of  his  neighbors. 

Such  changes  were  not,  of  course,  made  at  once,  and 
yet  they  were  quickly  made ;  for  the  mind,  when  put 
into  favorable  conditions  for  growth,  progresses  with  that 
marvelous  celerity  which  distinguishes  all  mental  move- 
ments. It  takes  years  for  the  boy  to  become  a  man, 
but  a  few  hours  is  often  sufficient  to  make  a  man  turn 
out  of  doors  his  present  mind  and  welcome  one  entirely 
different. 

Squire  Atherton's  transformation  was  effected  more 
gradually.  He  floated  in  his  wife's  companionship  al- 
most imperceptibly  into  a  higher  and  wider  stratum  of 
thought.  Her  opinions,  repelled  at  first,  still  struck  fire 
against  his  feelings  and  intellect,  and  day  by  day  he 
became  possessed  and  enthused  by  them.  To  make 
money,  to  make  himself  the  bread-giver  to  thousands,  to 
become  a  living  fountain  of  wealth,  to  double  the  value 
of  Atherton  land — these  ideas  grew  into  stringent  mo- 
tives for  action,  and  he  was  led  into  a  mental  condition 
he  would  once  have  repudiated  with  scorn  as  one  false 
alike  to  his  principles  and  his  order. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  squire  was  also  in- 
fluenced by  Dick  Alderson,  for  Dick  and  Loida  made 
frequent  visits  to  Atherton  ;  and  Dick's  descriptions  of 
the  Mexican  grandees,  who  drew  their  immense  reve- 
nues from  mining,  greatly  impressed  his  imagination. 


234  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

If  Mexican  nobles  were  miners,  why  could  not  English 
squires  be  manufacturers  ?  Indeed,  it  often  seemed  to 
Clara  that  Dick  had  a  secret  longing  for  the  life  he 
had  abandoned.  She  noticed  that  every  time  he  came 
to  Atherton  he  dwelt  with  more  loving  enthusiasm  on 
the  adventurous  existence  which  he  had  led  for  ten 
years.  She  noticed  that  he  had  not  reopened  the 
bank,  though  he  had  been  requested  by  a  unanimous 
call  of  the  people  in  the  vicinity  of  Tipham  Market  to 
do  so.  And  Clara,  putting  these  and  other  things  to- 
gether, argued  that  Dick  did  not  find  riding  about  his 
fields  and  going  to  the  hunt  a  sufficient  exchange  for 
the  excitement,  the  danger,  and  the  rich  results  of  his 
Western  experience. 

It  is  true,  he  had  Loida  and  he  had  his  mother,  and 
he  had  one,  nay,  two,  really  charming  homes.  What 
more  could  he  want  ? 

"  The  trivial  round,  the  common  task, 
May  furnish  all  we  ought  to  ask, 
Room  to  deny  ourselves  ;  " 

but  Dick  could  not  attain  to  this  condition.  And 
Clara  sympathized  with  him.  Loida's  sweet  repose,  her 
gentle  content  with  life  and  Dick,  her  failure  to  see 
Dick's  restlessness,  irritated  her.  She  felt  herself  com- 
pelled to  try  and  rouse  in  the  placid  lady  a  thought  that 
this  sameness,  though  a  sameness  of  love  and  happi- 
ness, might  become  a  little  fatiguing  to  restless  spirits. 
One  of  these  discussions  brought  out  a  fact  which  made 
her  think  well  of  Dick's  forethought,  and  also  showed 
her  a  way  full  of  possibilities  as  far  as  Francesca  was 
concerned. 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     235 

They  were  all  sitting  together  one  evening,  in  the  fall 
of  the  year.  It  was  chilly  and  rainy,  and  there  was  a 
little  fire  in  the  grate.  The  squire  was  smoking,  Fran- 
cesca  reading,  Loida  sewing,  Dick  looking  into  the  fire 
— or  the  far  West — Clara  doing  nothing  with  her  hands, 
for  her  restless  mind  gave  her  sufficient  employment,.. 
The  languid  melancholy  of  autumn  was  distinctly  pres- 
ent, for  unless  it  be  in  characters  of  vivid  vitality,  it  is 
true  that — 

"  The  swift  beat  of  the  brain 
Falters,  because  it  is  in  vain 
In  autumn,  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf;  " 

and  the  chief  joy  seems  to  be  quiet  and  to  muse  secretly 
over  our  own  dreams. 

"  I  suppose  this  is  what  is  called  a  peaceful,  simple, 
sweet,  idyllic  life,"  said  Clara.  "  I  think  '  peace  '  and 
'  simplicity '  idols  quite  as  little  entitled  to  worship  as 
graven  images  are.  What  can  people  do  in  such  lives 
but  fold  any  solitary  talent  they  have  in  a  napkin  and 
bury  it  in  a  field  ?  " 

"But  ther,  Clara  dear,"  said  Loida,  in  her  sweet, 
low  voice,  "  we  are  out  of  danger  and  out  of  tempta- 
tion, and  the  very  air  is  full  of  peace  and  rest,  and  our 
hearts  are  full  of  love,  and  what  more  can  we  desire  it 
this  unhappy  world  but  peace  and  rest  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  at  Dick,  who  did  not  lift  his 
eyes  or  indorse  her  statement  by  even  the  faintest  of 
smiles,  while  Clara's  looks  contradicted  the  assertions 
even  as  they  were  made.  And  as  soon  as  Loida  ceased 
speaking,  she  said : 

"  '  Peace  ! '  '  Safety  ! '  '  Out  of  temptation! '  I  do 
nc't  think  much  of  such  words.  They  are  mere  words 


236  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

— the  Dogberry  and  Verges  of  morality."  And  then, 
with  a  charming  mockery,  she  quoted :  " '  You  are  to 
bid  any  man  stand  in  the  prince's  name.  But  how  if 
he  will  not  stand  in  the  prince's  name  ?  Why,  then, 
take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him  go,  and  presently  call 
the  watch  together,  and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a 
knave.'  Peace  and  rest,  indeed  !  You  may  bid  peace 
or  restj  or  even  love,  stand  in  any  name  you  like ;  but  if 
they  do  not  stand  ?  And  if  all  you  can  do  is  to  call 
the  watch  together,  and  try  and  thank  God,  and  talk 
about  knaves,  what  then  ? " 

"  Did  you  say  '  love,'  Clara  dear  ? " 

"Yes,  Loida  dear,  I  said  'love.'  I  think  peace  and 
rest  are  suffocating  atmospheres  for  love.  That  is  the 
reason  I  have  labored  like  a  galley-slave  to  set  Rash- 
leigh  to  work  in  a  mill.  I  am  in  hopes  the  mill  will  stir 
the  stagnant  air,  and  give  love  some  chance  to  live  and 
grow.  Any  plant  but  a  weed  dies  in  perpetual  sun- 
shine." 

Dick  looked  at  her  with  a  bright,  thoughtful  face. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  Nirvana  ?  "  he  said.  "  And 
what  do  you  think  of  such  a  state,  Clara  ?  " 

"  I  think  Nirvana  might  be  the  heaven  of  a  Platonic 
oyster,  or  a  jelly-fish  in  tropical  seas.  I  could  never 
dream  of  Nirvana." 

"  But,  Clara,  the  jelly-fish  has  already  explained  that 
it  is  destitute  of  a  sensorium." 

"  And  that  is  where  it  is,  Dick.  We  have  sensoria, 
and  sensoria  make  Nin'ana  impossible ;  though,  in- 
deed, I  have  been  at  some  places  here  that  were  even 
worse.  Shall  I  ever  forget  Mrs.  Sykes  and  her  even- 
ing party  f  " 


MARTHA  LEIGPI  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     237 

"  I  was  not  there,"  said  Loida. 

"  Unfortunately  Francesca  and  I  were  there.  It  is 
easily  described :  We  sat  about  the  room,  quiet  as  a 
funeral,  in  the  midst  of  many  candles.  I  was  hysterical 
with  the  silence.  I  had  to  go  to  the  piano  and  sing, 
or  I  should  have  shrieked.  I  am  anticipating  the 
opening  of  the  mill.  What  a  pleasure  to  hear  the  rush 
of  steam,  the  rattle  of  machinery,  and  the  '  hum-m-m ' 
of  wheels." 

"  Clara  dear,  I  have  heard  the  noise  of  the  mill.  I 
thought  it  dreadful.  If  cotton  could  only  be  spun  with- 
out noise." 

"I  do  not  suppose  it  would  then  be  spun  at  all. 
Fancy  a  silent  factory!  "  cried  Clara.  "  How  oppressive 
it  would  be!  No  one  could  do  monotonous  work 
without  noise;  it  would  be  unendurable;  it  would 
drive  the  workers  crazy." 

Dick  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"By  Saint  George,  you  are  right,  Clara!"  he  cried. 
"I  have  seen  such  noiseless  mines  in  Mexico — penal 
servitude.  Dear  me!  I  was  thinking  of  Mexico,  feel- 
ing glad  that  I  still  had  a  hold  on  the  country.  After 
all,  there  was  a  great  charm  in  going  to  work  every 
morning  with  the  hope  of  a  '  find '  that  might  be  a  fort- 
une. You  sow  a  field,  and  know  almost  to  a  shilling 
how  much  its  harvest  will  be  worth.  You  go  to  your 
-.•nine,  hoping  everything,  for  everything  is  possible  ;  and 
in  mining  you  set  your  hopes  to  the  possible,  not  to  the 
probable." 

"  You  still  have  a  hold  on  the  country  ?  "  asked  Clara. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  sell  my  right  in  the  San  Rayas  mine.     I 


238  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

could  not  sell  advantageously  at  the  time,  and  now  I 
am  glad  of  it,  for  my  last  letters  from  Mexico  say  that 
there  has  been  a  new  labor  opened  up  •„  that  is,  a  new 
vein  of  silver.  I  may  have  to  return  and  look  after  my 
interests  in  it." 

Loida  dropped  her  work  and  seemed  unable  to  speak. 
Dick  took  her  hand  and  answered  her  terrified  inquiry 
with  an  assuring  smile. 

"  I  shall  take  you  with  me,  Loida — if  I  have  to  go." 

Then  Clara  perceived  a  singular  advantage,  and  she 
glanced  intelligently  at  Francesca  as  she  answered  for 
Loida,  the  quiet  English  lady  being  nonplused  by  the 
very  suggestion  of  her  going  to  Mexico : 

"Loida,  how  charming!  How  delightful!  How 
perfectly  delightful!  Loida,  how  I  envy  you!  To  go 
to  Mexico!  To  breathe  its  exquisite  air!  To  see  such 
a  picturesque  life!  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  be 
you.  Rashleigh,  I  am  sorry  now  I  persuaded  you  to 
begin  spinning.  We  might  have  gone  to  Mexico  with 
Dick  and  Loida.  What  a  trip  it  would  have  been! 
And  then  we  could  have  come  back  by  way  of  New 
York." 

The  squire  could  hardly  have  looked  at  his  wife  with 
more  amazement  if  she  had  suggested  a  summer's  trip 
to  Jupiter,  with  a  return  call  at  the  moon.  And  he  an- 
swered, with  an  almost  comical  decision : 

"  I  shall  never  go  to  any  part  of  America  in  this  life, 
Clara." 

Clara  shook  her  head  with  the  air  of  one  who  pities 
and  consoles. 

"  Never  mind,  Rashleigh,"  she  said.  "  This  life  is 
only  a  chapter  in  an  eternal  book  of  life.  The  scene 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     239 

of  the  next  chapter  may,  perhaps,  be  laid  in  America. 
I  think  we  have  good  reason  to  hope  so.  An  American 
wife  in  this  life  is  a  kind  of  I  O  U  to  an  Englishman 
that  his  next  experience  may  be  in  America.  Regard 
me  then,  Rashleigh,  as  'a  promiser  of  good  things  to 
come.' " 

She  was  happy,  she  was  hopeful,  she  saw  a  door  open- 
ing for  Francesca,  though  Francesca  did  not  yet  see  it 
for  herself.  And  as  Clara  was  not  ready  to  draw  any 
attention  to  it,  she  talked  in  a  fashion  which  no  way  rep- 
resented her  real  thoughts,  but  which  always  gave  the 
squire  and  Loida  and  Francesca  plenty  of  occupation 
to  apprehend. 

In  the  morning  there  was  a  very  large  mail,  and  no 
one  had  the  leisure  to  perceive  that  Francesca  received 
some  unusual  communication.  It  was  an  old-fashioned 
letter,  folded  as  letters  were  folded  before  the  days  of 
envelopes,  and  it  was  sealed  with  wax,  though  wax  had 
long  given  place  to  mucilage.  But  the  writer  of  this 
letter  was  Martha  Leigh,  and  Martha  was  faithful  to 
the  old  methods  she  had  used  in  her  youth. 

"  I'll  niver  seal  my  letters  any  such  way,"  she  said  to 
Lancelot,  when  envelopes  were  first  brought  to  Leigh 
House  ;  "  it's  a  way  out  of  nature,  and  I'll  niver  be  the 
one  to  asK  my  tongue  to  do  the  work  of  my  hands." 

Francesca  guessed  in  a  moment  the  writer  of  the  let- 
ter, and  her  loving  heart  beat  with  a  fresh  hope. 

"  Surely  Mrs.  Leigh  had  heard  from  Lancelot,  or 
perhaps  even — Lancelot  had  come  home !  " 

She  slipped  out  of  the  breakfast-parlor  as  quickly  as 
possible,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation  between  the 
garden  and  her  room,  she  chose  the  garden.  The 


24O  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

maids  would  be  upstairs,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  could 
not  endure  the  eye  and  the  ear  of  any  woman.  So  she 
walked  down  the  terrace  to  the  lower  garden,  and,  in 
the  solitude  of  the  apricot  standards,  broke  the  seal.  It 
was  from  Martha  Leigh.  And  every  letter  of  the  sad 
epistle,  though  large  and  clear,  was  shaken  by  the  palsy 
of  death. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  dying  woman,  "my  dear,  I  am  going 
out  into  the  great  dark.  I  may  live  one  week  or  happen  two 
weeks,  no  longer ;  so  come  to  me  if  you  can.  My  lad  has  never 
sent  me  another  line.  His  silence  has  been  a  sharp  knife;  it  has 
dug  my  grave.  But  he  is  not  dead.  He  will  come  back  here 
again.  Tell  him  I  died  blessing  the  very  thought  of  him.  Tell 
him  not  to  judge  me.  I  am  going  to  the  righteous  Judge  of  the 
whole  earth.  My  sentence  is  with  Him.  I  have  suffered  since  I 
saw  you.  I  have  been  racked  with  pain  and  with  heart-longing 
and  with  fearful  looking  forward.  I  would  like  to  see  your  face 
once  more ;  but  I  can  die  alone.  My  dear  lass,  it  is  a  hard  fate 
to  dree  when  you  have  to  stand  in  the  way  of  Fate.  I  did  what  I 
thought  was  right  to  every  one — dead  and  alive — and  I  got  the 
wage  of  the  stand-between — ill  from  both  and  all.  Sally  Wood 
has  married  young  Newby ;  they  think  Lancelot  is  dead.  He  is 
alive.  Stand  by  that.  Say  you  are  sure  of  it.  You  may  be. 
One  that  does  not  lie  has  told  me  so.  And  Lancelot  dead  would 
have  spoken  a  word  to  his  mother.  It  is  the  living  that  forget  us  : 
the  dead  have  better  memories  than  the  living.  God  bless  you! 
I  fear  I  shall  see  your  face  no  more.  It  is  very  dark  to  go  away. 
If  there  was  one  to  hold  my  hand!  Have  I  done  wrong?  Noth- 
ing has  come  right.  It  is  all  a  maze  of  sorrow  and  trouble.  I 
have  been  three  days  writing  this;  I  am  just  stepping  into  my 
grave.  Good-bye,  my  dear.  Tell  Lance — it  is  all  over.  I  can 
write  no  more — pain  and  pain  and  sorrow — and  a  thick — cold  dark- 
ness. God — be  merciful.  Pray  for  the  soul  of  Martha  Leigh." 

No  word  from  Lancelot.  No  word  at  all.  The 
letter  was  ablow.  Some  how,  she  had  always  anchored 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  VNTO  PEACE.     241 

to  the  belief  that  Lancelot's  mother  and  home  would 
bring  him  back.  And  the  strange  old  woman,  with  her 
heart  full  of  love,  was  dying.  All  her  longing  had  been 
useless.  Lancelot  had  not  felt  it.  What  did  it  matter 
if  he  was  alive,  when  the  circumference  of  the  world 
was  between  them  ?  For  the  first  time  she  had  a  senti- 
ment of  anger  against  her  lover.  No  circumstances 
could  excuse  such  cruel  neglect  of  his  mother.  And 
oh,  how  cruel  his  silence  to  her  was! 

She  did  not  weep.  She  had  passed  that  possible 
comfort.  The  source  of  her  tears  was  dry.  With  the 
letter  in  her  hand,  she  went  back  to  the  house.  Loida 
was  there  and  Clara.  To  one  of  them  she  must  speak ; 
and  after  a  moment's  thought  she  looked  into  the  parlor 
in  search  of  Clara.  The  quick  sympathy  in  her  bright 
face  answered  the  unspoken  request.  In  ten  minutes 
she  was  sitting  by  Francesca's  side,  listening  to  the  last 
words  of  the  lonely  woman  going  out  into  the  dark 
without  a  word  of  love  to  cheer  her. 

"  Francesca,  you  must  go  at  once  to  Leigh  House,'* 
said  Clara. 

"  I  will  go  as  soon  as  possible,  Clara.  I  must  get 
my  father's  permission." 

"  I  will  give  you  that.  Your  father  has  gone  to  Hare- 
top,  and  may  not  be  back  until  to-morrow  night.  I 
would  go  at  once — this  very  hour." 

Francesca  smiled.  "  Of  course  you  would  go  this 
very  hour,  Clara.  I  could  not  do  anything  in  such  a 
hurry.  It  would  make  me  ill.  Things  have  to  be  con- 
sidered." 

"  I  had  forgotten  that  it  takes  an  English  lady  three 
days  to  consider,  and  then  three  more  to  move  upon 


242  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

her  consideration.  That  is  a  week.  And  the  poor, 
heart-broken  woman  has  given  you  a  week;  so  you 
may  possibly  see  her  alive.  If  she  had  written  to  me, 
Francesca,  I  should  have  packed  a  valise  and  been  on 
the  way  to  her  at  this  very  moment." 

"  You  have  been  trained  to  think  and  act  as  if  im- 
pediments did  not  exist,  Clara.  I  have  not.  Hurry 
petrifies  me.  I  should  be  ill  and  a  trouble  instead  of  a 
help." 

"  If  the  house  was  on  fire,  you  would  brush  your  hair 
and  put  your  collar  on,  I  have  no  doubt.  If  you  saw 
Lancelot  coming  up  the  terrace,  you  would  wait  until 
the  footman  brought  you  his  card.  Francesca  dear,  if 
you  would  only  be  in  a  hurry,  or  go  into  a  passion,  or 
shriek,  or  say  a  few  dreadful  words,  or  do  any  other 
womanly  thing,  you  would  not  need  the  doctor.  In 
spite  of  your  heart-sickness,  you  would  get  some  life 
and  some  color.  Do  put  the  house  in  a  fuss,  and  send 
impossible  messages  to  the  stables,  and  be  on  the  way 
to  Leigh  in  forty  minutes.  I  will  help  you." 

"  Mrs.  Leigh  will  not  expect  me  for  a  few  days,  and 
J  do  not  think  I  ought  to  go  without  father's  permission. 
He  is  so  jealous  wherever  Lancelot  is  concerned." 

"  Very  well.  I  often  wonder  if  the  earth  going 
round  its  axis  does  not  put  on  the  drag  when  passing 
England.  Life's  wheels  run  so  slowly  here." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  new  to  tell  Mrs.  Leigh  ? " 

"  Nothing  I  would  tell  her.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Captain  Benton  this  morning." 

"  Is  there  any  hope,  Clara  ?  " 

"  None,  my  dear.  The  captain  says  he  easily  found 
traces  of  him  at  Vera  Cruz,  at  Bocca  del  Rio,  and  at 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     24$ 

other  towns  between  Vera  Cruz  and  Mexico.  He 
stayed  at  the  Mercado  Hotel,  in  the  Plateros  Mexico, 
and  his  trunk  remained  there  for  many  weeks." 

"  Then  Benton  supposes  him  to  be  dead  ? " 

"  He  thinks  so.  Assassinations  are  as  common  as 
the  nightfall.  A  stranger's  life  is  not  worth  a  dollar 
unless  he  is  able  to  'protect  himself.  So  Benton  says." 

"  He  found  no  certain  trace  of  Lancelot's  death  f  " 

"  No  more  than  of  his  existence." 

"  Then  I  will  believe  Lancelot's  mother,  and  she  says 
he  is  alive.  A  dying  mother  knows  more  than  a  detect- 
ive. She  sees  further,  and  feels  where  she  cannot  see."' 

"When  you  come  back  from  Leigh,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

"  You  can  say  nothing,  Clara,  that  I  will  not  grate- 
fully listen  to.  All  your  words  are  good  words." 

"  Thank  you,  dear! " 

And  Clara  kissed  the  pale,  young  face,  so  full  of  sad- 
ness and  repressed  suffering,  and  wondered  that  the 
little  mystery  in  her  speech  roused  neither  interest  nor 
curiosity. 

"  I  will  get  ready  to  leave,  Clara,  and  when  father 
returns,  if  I  have  his  permission,  there  need  be  no  de- 
lay." 

And,  not  unkindly,  Clara  expressed  by  a  slight  move- 
ment of  her  shoulders  her  incomprehensibility  of  such 
deliberate  movements. 

On  the  evening  of  the  next  day  Squire  Atherton  re- 
turned from  Haretop.  He  had  had  a  very  pleasant 
visit,  he  was  in  a  particularly  happy  mood,  and  he  did 
think  it  a  little  hard  to  have  his  sporting  adventures  in- 
terrupted by  a  discussion  concerning  Martha  Leigh. 


244  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

That  night  he  refused  to  see  any  reason  at  all  for  Miss 
Atherton  visiting  the  dying  woman.  Indeed,  he  as- 
serted that  from  his  own  observation  he  thought  her  a 
very  improper  person  to  visit. 

"  She  isn't  herself  at  all,"  he  said.  "  She  gave  me 
such  a  turn  as  never  was,  and  if  she  should  go  into  one 
of  her  tantrums  with  Francesca,  there  is  no  telling  what 
would  happen.  Why-a  !  It  was  only  last  month  Joshua 
Newby  tried  to  have  her  put  in  safe  keeping.  He 
said  his  son  had  married  the  next  heir — failing  the 
missing  one — and  that  he  was  sure  she  would  burn 
the  house  down  if  things  went  as  she  did  not  want  them 
to  go." 

"  Lancelot  will  come  back,"  said  Francesca,  with  a 
quiet  decision. 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  he  would,  I  am  sure.  I  would 
then,  mebbe,  have  some  good  of  my  own  daughter,  and 
my  own  wife  would  not  be  bothering  my  very  life 
out  to  run  his  mill.  I  wish  to  goodness  he  would 
come!  It  seems  like  his  very  name  spoils  a  pleasant 
evening." 

The  next  morning,  however,  he  had  changed  his 
views  on  the  subject ;  that  is,  Clara  had  had  an  oppor- 
tunity to  reason  with  him,  and  he  had  adopted  her 
views.  He  had  been  made  to  see  the  lonely,  broken- 
hearted woman  at  the  grave's  mouth,  and  he  had  been 
informed  of  the  utter  failure  of  Benton  to  find  any  trace 
of  Lancelot. 

"  He  says  Lancelot  Leigh  was  last  seen  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Necatitlan  Square,  a  place  always  dan- 
gerous for  a  man  in  a  European  dress.  There  was  a 
bull-fight  in  the  vicinity,  and  it  is  supposed  he  went 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     24$ 

there.  Benton  says,  further,  that  it  is  a  haunt  of  cut- 
throats— of  men  who  would  murder  a  foreigner  for  a 
few  piastres — and  he  feels  sure  that  the  next  day 
Lancelot's  body  lay  behind  a  certain  strongly  grated 
window  between  the  Alameda  and  the  Paseo  of  Bucareli 
— the  window  of  the  Mexican  morgue." 

"  Have  you  told  Francesca  ? " 

"  Not  as  I  have  told  you.  She  still  believes  her  lover 
is  alive — and  I  think  so,  also." 

"  But  why  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know  '  why.'  If  I  had  reasons  for  my 
belief  I  should  not  believe.  Let  Francesca  go  and  see 
Mrs.  Leigh.  It  can  do  her  no  harm,  it  may  do  her 
much  good.  She  looks  very  frail  and  ill.  Dick  will 
drive  her  there  If  she  stays  at  all,  it  will  be  at  the 
Idles '." 

And  of  course  Mrs.  Atherton  won  her  plea.  The 
squire  came  downstairs  next  morning  with  the  permis- 
sion on  his  lips,  and  he  gave  it  to  his  daughter  with  a 
kiss  full  of  affection. 

"Thou  art  such  a  little  lass  as  never  was!"  he  said 
fondly.  "  Thou  hast  Clara  as  much  in  thy  power  as 
thou  hast  me  and  everybody  else." 

It  was  full  eleven  o'clock,  however,  ere  Francesca 
left  Atherton,  and  it  was  fully  four  days  since  Martha's 
letter  had  been -posted.  In  that  space  of  time  she 
might  be  much  worse,  or  the  attack  might  be  past  and 
she  might  be  recovering.  If  so,  it  was-  agreed  that 
Dick  should  see  her.  He  could  tell  her  many  things 
about  Mexico,  and  perhaps  give  her  some  fresh  hope 
about  her  lost  son.  Under  the  circumstances,  he 
thought  it  would  be  a  kind  act  to  speak  of  his  possible 


246  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

journey  back  to  Mexico  as  a  certainty.  He  was  going 
to  ask  permission  to  see  Lancelot's  likeness,  and  he  had 
no  doubt  he  could  learn  the  face  by  heart  and  remem- 
ber it. 

The  conversation  resulting  from  such  plans  and  hopes 
was  of  course  all  in  one  direction ;  but  it  was  full  of 
interest  to  both  Dick  and  Francesca.  Dick  liked  to 
talk  of  Mexico.  He  was  in  the  middle  of  an  animated 
description  of  the  Merchants'  Arcades,  "where  the 
crowd  was  as  thick  as  smoke,"  when  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  little  churchyard  on  the  wold  Francesca  had 
passed  the  day  on  which  she  first  saw  Martha  Leigh. 
There  was  a  crowd  in  the  yard,  and  many  carriages 
outside  the  gate. 

"  It  is  a  funeral,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  Dick's 
arm  to  stay  his  conversation.  "  It  is  Mrs.  Leigh's 
funeral,  I  am  sure.  Oh,  why  did  she  not  send  for  me 
sooner!" 

In  silence  they  drove  to  the  church  gate.  Several 
men  were  standing  around  watching  the  horses.  They 
were  not  talking,  and  the  solemn  voice  of  the  priest  at 
the  grave-side  seemed  to  fill  all  the  space  around  them. 
Dick  asked  very  softly  whose  funeral  it  was,  and  the 
man  questioned  answered : 

"  It  is  Mistress  Leigh's  burying.  She  died  Monday 
night  some  time.  It  was  sudden  at  last,  I  should 
think." 

Then  they  entered  the  yard  and  joined  the  crowd 
around  the  grave.  Squire  Idle  was  among  them,  and 
he  and  a  white-headed  man,  whom  Francesca  instinct- 
ively knew  to  be  Doctor  Thorpe,  assisted  the  rector  and 
the  sexton  in  the  last  sad  rites.  The  doctor  was  weep- 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     247 

ing.  In  days  long  gone  by  he  had  loved  Martha  very 
fondly.  So  also  had  Squire  Idle.  It  was  these  two 
friends  of  her  youth  that  laid  her  in  her  grave.  All 
that  her  son  ought  to  have  performed  they  did ;  and 
Francesca  was  glad  to  see  even  this  affectionate  sorrow. 

As  the  crowd  dispersed,  she  drew  closer.  She  loos- 
ened the  knot  of  white  ribbon  from  her  throat,  kissed 
it,  and  dropped  it  upon  the  coffin.  Squire  Idle  had  gone 
away  unconscious  of  their  presence.  Doctor  Thorpe 
remained  at  the  grave  until  it  was  filled  and  the  turf  laid 
back  upon  the  clay.  D^.ck  and  Francesca  walked  into 
the  church  and  read  the  gravestones,  and  talked  softly 
of  what  was  best  to  be  done. 

They  decided  to  return  to  Atherton,  and  were  about 
to  enter  their  carriage  when  Doctor  Thorpe  approached. 
He  said,  shortly : 

"  I  am  Doctor  Thorpe,  and  I  know  you  are  Miss 
Atherton.  She  was  very  restless  to  see  you.  I  thought 
of  writing  to  Atherton  a  week  ago.  I  wish  I  had." 

"  I  wish  so,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Poor  Martha !     Poor  Martha !     How  she  suffered ! " 

"  Who  was  with  her  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul — I  mean  no  human  friend  or  helper. 
There  are  indeed  a  poor  old  man  and  woman  in  the 
house — poor,  far-off  relations,  but  they  were  asleep." 

"  Why  did  Lancelot  go  away !  Oh,  Doctor  Thorpe, 
if  you  know,  tell  me !  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  '  why.'  I  may  know — '  why ' ;  I 
think  I  do  know  '  why  ' ;  but  it  is  not  my  place  to  talk. 
Far  from  it.  I  loved  Martha  Leigh  when  she  was  little 
more  than  a  child.  If  her  son  left  her,  I  think  he  did 
right.  I  promised  Martha  to  take  care  of  everything 


248  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

for  him.  It  is  the  last  thing  I  can  do  for  the  woman  I 
loved." 

"  Her  death  was  very  hard  ? " 

"Very!  Very!  She  longed  for  just  one  word  out 
of  the  great  silence ;  she  never  got  it.  She  was  tortured 
by  her  conscience  and  tortured  by  her  heart.  She  lived 
in  another  world  to  ours.  No  one  knew  her.  No  one 
can  judge  her.  She  had  hopes  and  despairs  beyond 
our  bearing.  I  hope  she  has  peace  at  last,  if,  indeed, 
to  such  a  shade  peace  be  any  blessing." 

"  She  must  have  known  she  was  dying.  Indeed,  she 
wrote  and  told  me  so." 

"  She  knew  right  well.  She  had  tied*  a  napkin  care- 
fully under  her  lower  jaw  to  support  it.  She  was 
stretched  decently  in  a  winding-sheet.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  her  hands  clasped.  She  had,  in  fact,  prepared 
herself  for  her  burial.  A  strange,  strong,  loving,  hating, 
immortal  woman.  For  I  cannot — though  her  body  lies 
there — I  cannot  think  of  her  as  dead." 

"  Whence  come  we  ?  Whither  go  we  ? "  Dick's  face 
was  full  of  speculation  and  trouble.  He  was  thinking 
of  many  a  tragic  death  which  he  had  seen,  but  of  none 
so  mournfully  tragic  as  this  lonely,  conscious  outgoing 
of  Martha  Leigh. 

"  Whence  come  we  ?     Whither  go  we  ? " 

Again  Dick  asked  the  mighty  questions,  with  a 
troubled,  far-off  look  into  the  wide  horizon,  and  the 
doctor  repeated  them  after  him,  adding : 

"  There  is  no  answer ;  not  even  an  echo  from  the 
shores  of  the  Unknown." 

And  then  there  was  a  sad  pause,  which  was  broken 
by  Dick  saying  slowly  one  of  Sir  Alfred  Ly ell's  verses : 


MARTHA  LEIGH  ATTAINS  UNTO  PEACE.     249 

'  All  the  world  over,  I  wonder,  in  lands  that  I  never  have  trod, 
Are  the  people  eternally  seeking  for  the  signs  and  steps  of  a 

Godf 

Westward  across  the  ocean,  and  northward  across  the  snow, 
Do  they  all  stand  gazing  as  ever?     And  what  do  the  wisest 

know?' " 


"Ah,  Dick!  Ah,  doctor!"  cried  Francesca,  clasping 
her  hands  in  the  fullness  of  her  soul's  enthusiasm.  "  We 
know  that  we  shall  be  satisfied.  The  land  of  our  desire, 
the  land  which  we  call  heaven,  is  not  a  dream ;  it  is  a 
reality." 

"  My  dear,  I  have  seen — I  have  seen  all  kinds  of 
souls  go  forth ;  brave,  strong  ones,  like  Martha  Leigh's, 
who  sent  word  to  her  dead  that  she  was  coming,  and 
bid  them  meet  her ;  others  that  lay  down  with  as  little 
concern  as  if  they  were  going  to  sleep  for  a  little  while ; 
others  that  went  dry-shod  over  the  dark  river  in  the 
morning'  light,  with  a  vision  of  the  waiting  shining  ones ; 
and,  again,  wise,  thoughtful  souls,  who  felt  at  the  last  all 
faith  and  hope  gulfed,  and  in  an  agony  of  fear  and 
doubt  groped  everywhere  in  the  universe  for  the  black 
doors  of  annihilation.  And,  in  spite  of  all  we  know, 
life  and  death  are  the  great  mystery.  Sometimes  I 
have  even  thought  they  were  synonymous  terms,  and 
that  when  I  stood  by  the  dying  I  came  to  see  fresh  life 
given,  in  a  certain  sense,  to  aceouch  death.  We  are 
alone.  All  have  gone  away  and  left  poor  Martha,  and 
we  must  go,  also.  It  grows  late,  and  you  have  a  long 
drive.  Good-bye." 

Francesca  stayed  him  yet  a  moment  while  she  asked : 

"  You  will  not  let  anv  one  enter  Leiffh  House  ?  J* 
would  grieve  her  even  yonder." 


25O  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  While  I  am  keeper  of  the  threshold  no  one  shall 
enter  that  she  would  bar  the  door  against.  I  will  live 
there  myself,  if  it  be  necessary.  I  have  the  power,  or 
can  take  it.  Adieu! " 

They  watched  him  ride  slowly  away,  a  plain-looking, 
oldish  man,  small,  stout,  and  commonplace,  but  living 
amidst  the  great  mysteries  of  life,  and  nourishing  and 
cherishing  his  soul  on  them.  Dick  unfastened  his 
horses  and  prepared  for  their  homeward  drive,  and 
while  he  did  so  Francesca  walked  alone  to  the  new- 
made  grave,  and  vowed  a  vow  to  the  woman  whose 
clay  image  it  kept. 

And  for  a  long  while  she  was  very  silent,  and  Dick  let 
her  think.  His  own  mind  was  busy.  He  was  thou- 
sands of  miles  away,  when  he  heard  a  low  voice  .singing 
the  saddest  little  wail  of  minor  music.  It  was  at  his 
side.  It  was  Francesca.  He  came  sharply  and  sor- 
rowfully back  to  reality,  and  the  mournful  notes  of  the 
dirge  fitted  his  restless,  solemnly  wondering  mood  so 
well,  he  could  not  choose  but  listen  to  them  and  anon 
catch  their  meaning,  and  sing  them  also : 

"  '  They  have  buried  her  here  to-day, 
Set,  sun,  set  out  of  my  sight ; 
They  have  buried  her  here  to-dajr, 
Come,  deepening  gray  twilight ; 
Stay,  lingering — gray — twilight ; 
And  afterward  come  the  night.'  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

*THEY  WHO    LOVE    SHOW    THEIR    LOVE.** 

"  Every  time 
Serves  for  the  matter  that  is  then  born  in  V 

"  Hope, 

Best  apprehender  of  our  joys,  whieh  hast 
So  long  a  reach,  and  yet  canst  hold  so  fast." 

"Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie 
Which  we  ascribe  to  heaven." 

Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions. — Shakespeare. 

THE  night  was  dark  and  rainy,  and  the  ride  back  to 
Atherton*  very  melancholy ;  but  how  pleasant  was 
the  thought  of  home  and  all  its  love  and  comfort! 
From  afar  the  lighted  windows  of  the  Court  showed 
them  a  welcome ;  and  the  little  surprise  of  their  earlier 
return  added  a  kindlier  tone  to  their  reception.  Dick 
thought  he  had  never  before  seen  Loida  look  so  charm- 
ing ;  certainly  she  had  never  before  met  him  with  such 
a  delightful  show  of  her  affection.  For  if  Dick  had  one 
fault  with  his  beautiful  wife,  it  was  that  she  restrained 
too  much  all  show  of  the  really  deep  love  she  bore  him. 
But  this  night  she  rose  up  blushing  with  delight  at  his 
entrance.  She  took  his  hands ;  she  let  her  eyes  seek 
from  his  the  embrace  he  was  proud  and  happy  to  give. 
Part  of  this  sweet  effusion  was  doubtless  due  to  the  un- 


252  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

expected  joy  of  his  return  that  night ;  but  mostly  it  was 
due  to  some  words  Clara  had  let  fall  as  they  sat  together 
that  afternoon. 

The  squire  had  just  left  them  for  his  usual  tramp,  and 
perhaps  there  was — or  perhaps  Clara  thought  there  was 
— the  faintest  shadow  of  wonder  or  contempt  on  Loida's 
face  at  his  boyish  delight  in  the  affectionate  compli- 
ments and  charges  of  his  wife.  "  He  was  to  be  sure 
and  take  care  of  himself — not  to  get  his  feet  wet — not 
to  ride  horses  nobody  else  would  mount — if  he  took  his 
gun,  not  to  try  and  hop  through  a  hedge  as  if  he  thought 
himself  a  bird  " — and  so  on  indefinitely.  And  after  all, 
a  quick  following  of  him  to  the  open  door  for  a  final 
kiss,  though  Clara  pretended  that  "  she  had  forgotten 
to  look  whether  he  had  his  gaiters  on  or  not." 

All  this  demonstrativeness  of  love  Avas  foreign  to 
Loida's  ideas  and  experience,  rather  than  it  was  aside 
from  her  real  disposition.  Perhaps  if  Clara  had  an- 
alyzed the  shadow  on  her  companion's  face,  she  would 
have  found  more  of  longing  than  of  wonder  or  contempt 
in  it.  However,  it  was  Clara's  way  always  to  face 
what  annoyed  her,  and  she  said  reflectively  as  she  re- 
sumed her  sewing : 

"  Men  do  so  love  to  be  petted ;  they  are  as  hungry 
for  a  few  sweet  words  as  a  baby  for  its  mother's  breast. 
And  when  it  is  so  easy  to  make  them  happy,  do  you 
not  think,  Loida,  that  we  ought  to  do  so  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  we  ought." 

"  Rashleigh  went  away  with  such  a  glow  in  his  heart, 
so  elated,  my  dear,  that  nothing  on  earth  could  hurt 
him.  He  would  ride  like  a  spirit  or  swim  like  a  fish, 
or  do  any  mortal  thing  as  an  immortal  ought  to  do  it. 


"  THE  Y  WHO  LO  VE  SHO  W  THEIR  LOVE."     253 

My  dear,  if  you  can  kindle  such  a  glow  in  a  man's 
heart,  you  may  send  him  into  the  Stock  Exchange  to 
make  a  fortune  out  of  nothing,  or  do  any  other  impos- 
sibility. I  dare  say  if  you  had  written  letters  to  Dick 
full  of  red-hot  adjectives,  he  would  have  been  home, 
with  his  pockets  full,  in  five  years.  Men  are  made  that 
way,  my  dear." 

She  said  a  great  deal  more  on  the  same  subject, 
touching  with  a  delicate,  clever  innuendo  the  fact  that 
Dick  was  a  man  specially  needing  love's  loving-kind- 
ness ;  and  as  she  talked,  the  voices  of  both  grew  more 
earnest,  and  the  one  woman  was  brave  enough  to  say 
and  the  other  woman  was  brave  enough  to  hear  words 
that  touched  two  lives  with  a  fresh  glory  even  to  the 
grave.  And  the  first  result,  as  far  as  Dick  was  con- 
cerned, was  that  unusual  welcome  home — the  blush, 
the  kiss,  the  eager  inquiry  as  to  his  desires,  the  ready 
service  love  gives  so  gracefully.  And  Clara,  with  a 
pretty  tact,  made  her  anxiety  about  Francesca  a  screen 
for  Loida's  unprecedented  show  of  tenderness.  She  in- 
sisted on  twenty  practical  inquiries  into  damp  and  chill 
and  hunger  and  thirst,  and  finally  left  the  girl  cuddled 
close  to  her  father's  side,  to  give  special  orders  about 
supper  for  the  travelers. 

Then  the  squire  said : 

"  Thou  art  home  a  deal  sooner  than  we  thought  for. 
Has  something  gone  wrong  ? " 

"  I  hope  not ;  I  think  not,  father.  Mrs.  Leigh  is 
dead.  We  were  just  in  time  to  join  the  funeral.  Squire 
Idle  was  there,  but  he  seemed  full  of  thought,  and  he 
did  not  see  me." 

"  God  give  her  soul  eternal  rest!      She  was  a  woman 


254  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

full  of  whimsies  and  troubles.  A  very  strange  woman. 
A  very  sorrowful  woman,  I  think." 

"  In  this  world,  father,  who  are  quite  happy  ? " 
"  Sometimes  some  of  us  fancy  we  are  happy ;  eh, 
Dick?" 

Dick  was  sitting  quiet,  with  a  smile  on  his  handsome 
mouth.  At  that  hour  Dick  at  least  was  happy.  But 
when  the  squire  explained  his  question,  a  quick  solemnity 
absorbed  the  dreamy  light  of  joy,  and  he  answered 
slowly : 

"As  far  as  I  have  seen,  every  soul  has  trouble  of 
some  kind." 

"  And  for  every  one,  Dick,  there  is  also  death." 
"  My  dear  Francesca,  I  do  not  call  death  sorrow.     I 
have  seen  death  watched  for,  longed  for,  and  prayed 
for.     This  little  earth  is  but  a  lodge  in  the  universe,  and 
we  are  but  tenants  at  will  of  our  place  in  it ;  but — 

"  '  The  heavens  are  measureless  ;  the  dead  are  free! 
With  their  brief  day  on  earth,  their  sorrows  cease. 
O  Grave,  this  is  thy  victory! 
O  Death,  this  is  thy  peace ! ' 

I  heard  a  man  dying,  alone  at  the  bottom  of  a  deep 
mine,  say  those  words.  He  said  them  in  a  rapture^1 
He  was  a  young  Englishman  whom  I  tried  to  befriend. 
I  never  saw  a  smile  on  his  face  until  the  hour  of  his 
death.  But  if  there  be  a  true  joy  upon  earth  it  springs 
from  love — from  love's  labor  or  from  love's  sacrifice,  or 
love's  pleasure  shared  or  love's  sorrow  shared.  All 
other  joys  are  but  the  shadows  of  joy.  They  fly  away 
and  are  not." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  simultaneous  opening  of 


"  THE  Y  WHO  L  O  VE  SHO  W  THEIR  LOVE."     255 

doors,  and  from  the  kitchen  there  came  the  sound  of  a 
fiddle  and  laughter  and  interrupted  strains  of  song. 
Dick  listened  curiously. 

"  I  could  almost  swear,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  heard 
an  old  Spanish  gypsy  sing  as  some  one  is  singing  in 
your  kitchen,  squire." 

"  Not  unlikely,  Dick.  It  is  a  gypsy  singing,  and 
doubtless  he  is  singing  a  song  as  old  as  their  thieving 
race.  My  word,  what  thieves  they  are!  My  game- 
keeper calls  them  '  the  foxes  of  menkind.'  Toro,  who 
is  singing,  says  he  respects  me  because  he  never  could 
pick  my  pocket.  Have  you  gypsies  in  Mexico  ?  " 

"  Plenty  of  them,  and  never  two  or  three  together 
without  a  horse  or  an  ass  among  them.  They  make 
fortunes  there  by  telling  those  of  other  people.  Miners 
are  superstitious.  Well,  squire,  I  do  not  believe  any  one 
can  work  hundreds  of  feet  under  ground  and  not  get 
superstitious.  Everything  is  mysterious  in  those  living 
graves.  There  was  a  man  at  San  Rayas  who  was 
rich,  and  he  had  never  lifted  a  pick.  He  had  always 
the  good  fortune  to  be  out  of  such  work;  he  toiled 
with  a  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  made  more  than 
I  did." 

"Was  he  a  gypsy?"  inquired  Francesca,  who  was 
listening  with  a  face  full  of  interest. 

"  No ;  he  was  a  native  of  London.  He  had  been  at 
Eton  and  Oxford,  but  he  had  what  he  called  '  celestial 
affinities,'  and  he  lived  among  the  stars.  In  other 
words,  he  was  an  astrologer." 

"  Such  nonsense ! "  said  the  squire  contemptuously. 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"  If  you  had  heard  Saville  talk,  you  would  not  have 


256  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

answered  him  with  /  nonsense !'     Answer  me  his  first 
argument." 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  Admit  that  our  world  was  at  one  time  a  part  of  the 
sun.  Is  not  that  so  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  deny  it ;  but  what  then  ?  " 

"  Admit  that  day  and  night,  seasons  and  tides,  would 
be  unintelligible  were  no  account  taken  of  the  sidereai 
influences." 

"  Well,  what  by  that  ?  " 

"It  is  contrary  to  all  analogy  that  their  influence 
stops  there.  The  magnetic  storms  which  rage  through 
the  earth  synchronize  with  corresponding  phenomena  in 
the  sun.  The  rays  of  some  planets  have  more  power- 
ful chemical  action  than  others.  When  certain  planets 
arrive  at  certain  points,  we  have  earthquakes;  and  a 
famous  scientist  connects  the  solar  spots  with  famine, 
and,  consequently,  with  financial  stringency  and  com- 
mercial disaster ;  and  so,  you  see,  sends  us  to  the  sun 
for  forecasts  of  the  money  market."  * 

"  Now,  Dick,  thou  had  better  stop  romancing!  " 

"  Romancing!  Saville  said  that,  with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  astronomy,  astrology  was  the  most  exact  of 
all  the  sciences.  You  see,  he  was  sure  it  was  a  science. 
He  asserted  that  man,  being  a  product,  not  only  of  the 
earth,  but  of  the  universe,  was  also  profoundly  affected 
by  the  telluric  influences  in  ascendancy  at  the  time  of 
his  birth.  He  showed  me  published  'nativities'  of 
famous  men  who  were  either  insane  or  whose  genius 
touched  insanity,  and  they  were  all  born  under  the  same 
stellar  influences." 

*Huth's  "  Life  of  Buckle." 


' '  THE  Y  WHO  LOVE  SHO  W  THEIR  LO  VE."     2$f 

"  Does  he  mean  to  say  that  every  one  born  at  such 
conjunctions  is  insane?  What  nonsense!" 

"  No ;  he  did  not  say  that,  because  there  are  count- 
less hereditary  and  other  modifications;  but  he  said 
that  insanity  rarely,  or  never,  happened  without  the 
conjunction  of  Saturn  or  Mars  with  the  moon  or  Mer- 
cury. Nine  notoriously  insane  princes  were  born  under 
this  conjunction.  Swift,  Southey,  Moore,  Faraday  had 
the  same  conjunction ;  it  was  genius  in  early  life,  it  was 
insanity  at  the  close  of  life.  The  astral  influences  are 
modified  by  the  physical  conditions  waiting  for  them,  as 
the  produce  of  a  seed  is  modified  by  the  soil  into  which 
it  is  dropped.  I  tell  you  this  as  told  to  me ;  take  it  for 
what  it  is  worth." 

"Well,  Dick,  I  should  say  it  was  not  worth  much. 
Clara,  come  here,  my  dear.  Thou  has  missed  a  queer 
thing  about  the  stars.  Come  and  listen  to  Dick.  He 
thinks  he  is  in  Mexico,  I'll  be  bound." 

Clara  came  forward  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  Toro  brought  it,"  she  said,  "  and  he  wants  a  shilling 
for  his  trouble.  He  has  got  the  maids  hysterical  with 
his  singing  and  dancing,  and  I  am  trembling  for  my  sil- 
ver spoons." 

Dick  took  the  letter,  and  as  he  looked  at  it  his  face 
flushed  and  his  hands  nervously  broke  the  seal. 

"  It  is  from  Mexico,"  he  said,  "  from  my  old  partner 
— he  wants  me — he  wants  me  at  once — there  is  an  offer 
for  the  mine — a  big  offer.  I  must  go  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. What  luck  it  is!" 

He  had  carelessly  given  a  servant  a  piece  of  silver 
for  Toro,  and  was  reading  and  commenting  as  he  read, 
with  the  utmost  enthusiasm.  Loida  had  risen  and  gone 


258  LOl'E   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

to  his  side.  The  squire  was  watching  him  curiously. 
Clara  stood  on  the  hearth  looking  thoughtfully  into  the 
fire,  until  she  suddenly  lifted  her  face  and  darted  an 
inquisitive  glance  at  Francesca.  She,  of  all  present, 
seemed  quite  undisturbed  by  the  letter.  That  Dick 
should  get  a  letter  from  Mexico  was  natural  enough ; 
she  scarcely  considered  the  circumstance ;  but  as  soon 
as  the  current  of  the  conversation  changed,  her  mind 
went  voluntarily  back  to  the  channel  in  which  it  loved 
best  to  move  and  to  speculate.  Would  Lancelot  in  any 
way  hear  of  his  mother's  death  f  Would  it  bring  him 
home?  She  had  a  hope  that  Doctor  Thorpe  knew 
\vhere  Lancelot  was.  Surely  he  would  write  to  him  ? 
In  a  few  minutes  she  began  to  remember  that  Dick 
might  meet  Lancelot — that  he  might  even  try  to  find 
him.  Looked  at  on  the  map  Mexico  did  not  seem  such 
a  very  large  country,  and  she  had  an  idea  that  Dick 
had  some  unusual  power  or  influence  there. 

She  looked  up  at  Dick.  He  was  talking  to  Loida 
and  Clara  in  an  excited  manner.  The  squire  had  gone 
to  see  Toro  beyond  temptation.  He  knew  the  gypsy's 
fingers  stuck  to  a  bridle.  And  yet  he  liked  the  brown 
Antinous.  He  had  been  born  on  Atherton  moor,  and 
was,  in  a  fashion,  one  of  his  people. 

"  Come,  Toro,  I  will  walk  to  the  gate  with  you,"  he 
said  kindly,  touching  the  gypsy  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Too  much  honor  for  the  poor  person,  squire."  But 
Toro  put  his  fiddle  in  its  green  baize  bag,  and  laugh- 
ingly rose. 

"  Doctor  Dyson  says  you  bought  his  horse — a  bad 
brute  he  is." 

"  No,  no,  squire — badly  managed.     I  know  a  horse 


"THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE."     259 

the  minute  I  see  him,  temper  and  everything.  The 
doctor's  horse  is  quiet  with  me." 

"  Why  did  you  walk  into  poor  Hodgson's  hen-house, 
Toro  ? " 

"  Did  I,  squire  f  " 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"  Because  he  is  poor.  I  do  not  spare  the  poor  person 
because  he  has  little.  No  one  is  poor  but  them  God 
hates.  That  is  the  Rommany  creed." 

"It  is  a  wicked  one.  You  promised,  when  I  gave 
you  a  bit  of  land,  to  stay  on  it." 

"  The  dog  who  travels  about  finds  bones,  squire." 

"  Are  you  sending  your  boys  and  girls  to  school  ?  " 

"  In  the  highways  and  byways.  Good-night,  and 
good  luck  to  you,  squire.  Did  you  fear  I  would  put 
dras  in  your  mangers  f  None  of  us  would  hurt  Ather- 
ton  or  Atherton's  horses." 

"  I  know  you  do  not  wish  to,  Toro ;  but  sometimes 
the  devil — " 

"  The  'good  baron]  squire,  must  have  the  good  word. 
He  may  be  at  our  elbow." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  Toro." 

But  the  squire  laughed,  and  let  the  gypsy  pass 
through  the  gate  with  the  laugh,  and  as  he  turned 
toward  the  house  the  whole  interview  slipped  from  his 
memory  like  a  vagrant  thought.  He  felt  a  sudden 
melancholy  assail  him,  and  he  qaickened  his  footsteps 
and  gladly  re-entered  the  house.  In  the  parlor  Clara, 
Loida,  and  Dick  were  standing  together  on  the  hearth- 
rug, talking  with  great  animation ;  but  Francesca's 
face  was  upturned  to  the  group  with  a  shadow  of  pain 
upon  it. 


260  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  Well,  Dick,  is  it  to  be  Mexico  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  squire,  and  at  once.     Loida  is  going  with  me." 

"  That  is  a  nonsensical  thing,  Dick.  It  isn't  a  jour- 
ney fit  for  a  woman  at  all." 

"  Rashleigh,  it  is  a  lovely  journey,"  said  Clara. 
"  There  is  no  danger  whatever,  and  very  little  discom- 
fort. If  you  were  not  so  full  of  business  about  the  mill, 
I  should  ask  you  to  take  me  also.  What  a  splendid 
party  it  would  be ! " 

Squire  Atherton  looked  at  his  wife  as  a  mother  looks 
at  a  child  who  cries  for  the  moon.  He  did  not  consider 
the  supposition  as  a  serious  one. 

"  You  see,"  continued  Clara,  "  they  have  only  to  take 
a  fine  Cunard  steamer  to  New  York,  and  pray  what 
danger  or  discomfort  in  that  ?  None  at  all.  I  know, 
for  I  have  crossed  half  a  dozen  times.  From  New 
York  they  can  take  a  steamer  to  Mexico,  or  they  can 
go  to  New  Orleans  and  take  a  Mexican  steamer  from 
that  port.  As  Dick  and  Loida  had  no  wedding-trip,  I 
think  this  journey  together  may  just  take  its  place.  No 
one  knows  what  kind  of  stuff  his  or  her  love  is  made  of 
till  they  have  tested  it  on  a  journey  together.  We  came 
near  to  shipwrecking  our  good  opinion  of  each  other 
when  we  were  on  the  continent  once  or  twice.  Eh, 
Rashleigh  ? " 

"  We  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  Clara." 

"  We  certainly  did,  whether  you  know  it  or  not.  You 
were  so  English — so  rampantly  English — all  through 
France  and  Germany,  so  tremendously  Church-of-Eng- 
land  in  Rome,  that  any  sensible  cosmopolitan,  any  lover 
of  human  nature  in  all  its  charming  variety,  must  have 
felt  chafed  and  restricted.  I  did.  But  as  fast  as  my 


" THE Y  WHO  LOVE  SHO W  THEIR  LO VE."    26 1 

intelligence  blamed,  my  heart  excused  you.  For,  upon 
the  whole,  Rashleigh,  you  were  a  most  unselfish,  delight- 
ful traveling  companion.  I  only  hope  Loida  may  find 
Dick  as  really  effective  and  sensible  as  you  were.  It  is 
not  likely,  though." 

And  she  gave  Dick  a  deprecating  sigh,  and  turned  to 
her  husband  with  the  smile  which  always  won  her  way 
to  his  heart — which  always  put  his  wishes  or  his  will 
under  the  feet  of  her  least  desire. 

Loida  had  grown  quite  enthusiastic  during  the  discus- 
sion. The  squire  looked  at  her  heightened  color  and 
shining  eyes  with  amazement.  A  year  ago,  a  journey  so 
far  and  so  hurried  would  have  been  to  the  deliberate, 
methodical  Englishwoman  like  a  journey  into  an  open 
grave.  Now  she  was  absolutely  at  Dick's  desire. 

"  She  could  be  ready  in  a  week,  in  half  a  week,  in 
twenty-four  hours,  if  necessary." 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,  sir,"  said  Dick  to  the 
squire.  "  From  what  I  learn,  an  English  company  pro- 
pose to  buy  the  mine,  in  which  I  still  hold  a  controlling 
interest.  It  will  b,e  a  great  thing  for  me.  I  shall  then 
have  all  my  money  in  England.  I  can  buy  land ;  I  can 
build  a  new  house,  and  take  the  place  in  the  county 
that"  I  desire  to  take." 

And  this  last  argument  was  one  that  always  appealed 
to  the  squire.  He  was  at  once  satisfied. 

"  Will  you  be  long  away,  Dick  ? " 

"  Not  longer  than  half  a  year,  and,  as  Mrs.  Atherton 
says,  it  will  be  a  delightful  trip.  Loida  will  enjoy  every 
hour  of  it.  It  is  time  the  dear  little  woman  saw  some- 
thing of  the  world  she  lives  in." 

"  And  what  of  your  mother,  Dick  ? "  asked  Francesca. 


262  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"What  is  to  be  done  for  Mrs.  Alderson?  How  will 
she  like  your  going  away,  and  to  Mexico  again  ? " 

There  was  a  tone  of  reproach  in  Francesca's  voice. 
At  the  moment  it  annoyed  Dick. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  mother,"  he  said,  "  and  mother 
never  puts  herself  before  my  interest.  The  letter  went 
to  Alderson,  and  she,  seeing  it  was  from  Mexico,  and 
marked  '  Immediate,'  sent  Toro  here  with  it.  Mother 
will  be  glad  to  have  Loida  and  me  take  a  journey  to- 
gether, especially  when  the  journey  is  a  necessary  one." 

Then  the  details  of  this  journey  furnished  a  long  and 
interesting  discussion.  Clara  knew  so  much  about  New 
York,  and  Dick  knew  nothing  at  all ;  so  all  Clara's 
directions  and  advices  were  to  enter  in  his  pocket-book. 
Dick  knew  everything  about  Mexico,  but  all  his  propo- 
sitions were  to  discuss  by  the  fresh  element  of  womanly 
taste  and  requirements.  And  there  are  matters  which 
require  more  time  *  to  discuss  than  to  realize ;  it  took 
Loida  about  three  hours  to  resolve  to  take  one  trunk  only 
with  her ;  it  did  not  take  one  hour  to  pack  that  trunk. 

It  was  already  morning  when  "  good-nights "  were 
said,  and  there  was  little  sense  of  rest,  even  then,  in  the 
house.  Francesca,  on  reaching  her  own  room,  could 
not  find  heart  to  unclothe  herself.  There  was  a  harder 
look  on  her  lovely  face  than  it  had  ever  known  before ; 
and  perhaps  it  was  not  unreasonably  there.  For  in  all 
these  discussions  and  suppositions,  Lancelot  had  not 
once  been  named.  Dick  and  Dick's  fortune  and 
Loida's  comfort  and  pleasure  had  occupied  all  surmises, 
and  been  reason  sufficient  for  every  preparation.  No  one 
had  even  suggested  the  possibility  of  making  a  fresh 
search  for  her  lover,  on  the  very  spot  of  his  disappear- 


"THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE."     263 

ance,  in  the  general  enthusiasm  over  Dick's  good  fort- 
une and  the  extraordinary  event  of  Loida  actually  going 
to  cross  the  ocean. 

Her  loving  heart  burned  with  indignation.  She  told 
herself  that  she  had  rejoiced  with  Dick  and  Loida,  and 
that  she  had  some  right  to  expect  they  would  at  least  re- 
member she  was  weeping  for  her  own  loss.  She  felt  as 
if  every  one  did  Lancelot  injustice,  as  if  every  one  will- 
fully forgot  him ;  yea,  even  at  that  moment  she  felt 
angry  at  his  mother  for  deserting  him.  "  I  would  have 
lived  on  in  loneliness  and  suffering  had  I  been  in  her 
place,"  she  mused ;  "  lived  on,  if  only  to  pray  for  him, 
and  to  welcome  him  home  again."  Then  the  thought 
of  the  sorrow-haunted  woman  came  to  her  with  ex- 
traordinary power  and  sympathy.  She  was  instantly- 
contrite  for  her  angry  memory,  instantly  and  strangely 
conscious  of  the  agony  that  had  consecrated  every 
room  of  that  old,  empty  house,  which  but  a  little  while 
ago  echoed  to  Lancelot's  voice  and  step. 

She  could  not  keep  her  spirit  at  Atherton.  It  wan- 
dered away  to  Leigh,  and  to  that  forlorn  little  church- 
yard on  the  wold ;  and  there,  reluctantly  compelled  by 
some  influence  she  could  not  escape,  she  remained — 
sleeping  or  waking  the  whole  night  she  remained  there 
— hesitating,  trembling,  mourning  with  every  spiritual 
sense,  feeling  the  dead  that  were  below  and  the  souls 
that  were  overhead. 

Very  early,  while  it  was  yet  scarcely  dawn,  a  tap  at 
her  door  awakened  Francesca  from  her  troubled  visions. 
She  was  glad  to  see  it  was  Clara,  glad  to  feel  her  living 
face,  the  touch  of  her  warm  lips,  and  the  clasp  of  her 
soft,  strong  hands. 


264  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  I  was  unhappy  about  you,  Francesca,"  said  the 
pleasant,  sympathetic  woman,  sitting  down  on  the  side 
of  Francesca's  bed.  "  I  thought  I  heard  you  moaning 
in  your  sleep — somewhere  far  off — have  you  been 
dreaming  badly,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all  night ;   dreadful  dreams." 

"  About  Lancelot  ? " 

"  Not  exactly.     Do  not  speak  of  him." 

"  I  have  come  purposely  to  speak  of  him.  I  have 
come  to  advise  you  to  go  to  Mexico  and  seek  him 
yourself.  I  would  if  I  were  you.  No  one  should  pre- 
vent me.  Loida  can  go.  Then  you,  also,  can  go." 

"  They  never  named  him  last  night.  They  only 
thought  of  themselves." 

"  You  cannot  tell  their  thoughts,  nor  yet  their  reasons 
for  not  naming  him.  I,  for  instance,  was  quiet  because 
I  knew  it  was  not  the  time  to  speak  to  your  father,  and 
I  did  not  wish  an  ill-considered  decision  to  prejudice  a 
wiser  application.  But  it  is  certain  your  presence  will 
give  diligence  and  interest  to  the  search,  and  it  is  my 
belief  love  will  find  out  whatever  is  hidden." 

"  What  will  people  say  ?  " 

"  Whom  do  you  love  ?     '  People '  or  Lancelot  ?  " 

"  Will  father  let  me  go  ? " 

"  Ask  him." 

"  If  you  would — " 

"  No ;  not  unless  you  fail.  There  is  a  point  which 
honor  forbids  me  to  cross.  Your  father  will  refuse  me 
nothing.  For  that  reason  I  cannot  impose  on  his  love. 
He  has  an  affection  still  deeper  for  you.  Test  it  this 
morning.  You  will  find  his  love  strong  enough  to  grant 
you  this  favor,  I  make  no  doubt.  Would  you  like  to 


"THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE."     265 

go  to  Mexico?  Lancelot  disappeared  from  sight  in 
that  city.  Will  you  trust  to  Dick  and  Loida  making 
inquiries,  or  will  you  go  yourself?  What  do  you 
wish  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  go.  Clara,  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  to 
go.  Help  me,  dear!  How  shall  I  manage?  What 
shall  I  do  ?  " 

"Go  to  your  father.  Tell  him  your  desire.  I  will 
stand  by  you." 

"  I  will !  I  will !  Clara,  thank  you  for  coming. 
How  blind,  how  stupid  I  am  not  to  have  thought  of  the 
plan  last  night." 

"  No,  Francesca ;  the  plan  was  one  entirely  out  of 
your  mental  horizon.  If  a  girl  has  been  taught  she 
must  not  see  beyond  her  own  four  walls,  she  is  hardly 
likely  to  suppose  she  can  see  across  the  Atlantic.  I 
was  taught  to  believe  that  the  whole  world  and  the  full- 
ness thereof  was  mine." 

"O  Clara,  you  give  me  such  good  hope!  I  feel 
happy — happier  than  I  have  felt  for  such  a  long  time.  I 
must  get  up.  I  cannot  rest.  I  wish  breakfast  was  over. 
Would  it  do  to  speak  to  father  before  breakfast  ?  " 

Clara  thought  it  would  be  better  to  postpone  the 
great  question  till  the  squire  had  got  a  good  hold  of 
himself,  and  was  in  a  mood  to  regard  the  subject  from 
his  usual  views,  so  that  there  would  be  no  after-disput- 
ing. Then,  with  a  few  brave,  kind  words,  she  left  the 
girl  to  think  the  matter  over  in  her  own  heart. 

The  subject  was  not  an  entirely  new  one  to  Fran- 
cesca. Many  times  such  a  project  had  flashed  across 
her  mind,  but  it  had  appeared  too  chimerical,  too  sur- 
rounded with  insurmountable  difficulties  to  entertain  or 


266  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

consider.  It  came  and  went  like  a  flash,  without  ap- 
parent reason  or  result.  But  now  it  appeared  to  be  the 
most  reasonable  of  projects,  and  this  change  of  feeling 
in  some  singular  way  influenced  her  physical  bearing 
and  appearance.  In  that  hour  the  touch  which  removes 
immaturity  was  given ;  she  looked  no  older,  but  she  did 
look  more  perfect.  When  she  went  to  the  squire's 
room  after  breakfast,  she  went  with  a  step  and  an  air 
as  yet  new  to  herself ;  she  went  as  a  suppliant  indeed, 
but  as  a  suppliant  conscious  of  rights. 

The  squire  was  smoking,  and  reading  his  newspaper. 
Francesca's  presence  was  never  an  intrusion  ;  he  smiled 
to  her  over  the  top  of  the  Leeds  Mercury,  and  finished 
the  editorial  he  was  reading.  Then  he  looked  again 
at  his  daughter,  and  said : 

"  Art  thou  come  to  talk  to  me,  love  ? " 

"Yes,  father.  I  want  to  go  with  Dick  and  Loida, 
and  so  I  came  to  ask  your  permission." 

"I  never  heard  tell  of  such  a  thing!  Does  thou 
know  what  thou  art  saying  ?  My  love,  it  means  cross- 
ing three  thousand  miles  of  stormy  water,  and,  for  aught 
I  know,  as  many  more  miles  when  thou  gets  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world.  It  means  living  with  strange 
people,  and  sleeping  in  strange  beds,  and  eating  all  man- 
ner and  makes  of  strange  dishes.  From  all  that  I  ever 
read,  or  heard  tell,  when  thou  does  get  to  Mexico  thou 
wilt  be  in  a  country  where  no  life  is  safe.  Fighting 
and  talk  of  fighting  is  all  that  goes  on." 

"  Dick  and  Loida  will  take  care  of  me." 

"  Happen  they  will,  and  happen  they  will  not  be  able 
to  take  care  of  themselves.  Surely  thou  art  not  in 
earnest  ?  " 


"THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE."     267 

"  Indeed  I  am." 

"  Well,  then,  I  cannot  listen  to  such  sheer  nonsense. 
I  thought  thou  was  joking.  Go  to  Mexico!  Thou 
must  have  lost  thy  senses." 

"  Father,  I  have  been  sad  and  sick  for  a  long  time. 
I  have  not  been  such  a  happy,  pleasant  daughter  as  you 
deserve  to  have." 

"  Thou  hast  not — that  is  the  truth." 

"  It  is  about  Lancelot.     You  know  ? " 

"To  be  sure  I  know — I  know  too  well." 

"  I  think  if  I  went  with  Dick  and  Loida,  the  sea 
would  do  me  good.  It  would  make  me  mentally  and 
physically  stronger.  When  I  get  to  Mexico,  I  will  see 
that  Dick  looks  after  Lancelot.  I  do  not  think  Captain 
Benton  ever  did  anything  but  spend  money.  I  do  not 
think  Lancelot  is  dead ;  but  if  I  myself  can  find  out 
nothing,  then  I  shall  know  it  is  so.  That  would  be  a 
great  point.  One  can  learn  to  accept  the  inevitable. 
It  is  the  alternations  of  hope  and  despair  that  kill." 

"  To  be  sure.     If  Lancelot  is  found,  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  shall  ask  him  to  come  home." 

"Thou  wilt  not  marry  him,  and  stay  in  Mexico? 
That  would  fairly  kill  me." 

"  I  will  not." 

"  Because  thou  knows  thou  art  my  only  child ;  thou 
art  Lady  of  Atherton  Manor ;  thou  could  not  leave  thy 
father  and  thy  home  and  thy  land,  and  the  duty  thou 
owes  to  each  and  all,  just  to  please  thyself.  Thou  could 
not  do  a  thing  like  that,  Francesca." 

"  I  could  not  be  Francesca  Atherton  and  do  such  a 
thing.  Lancelot  must  come  back  home  if  he  wants  to 
marry  me.  If  he  will  not  come  home  for  my  sake,  do 


268  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

you  think  I  will  wrong  you  and  every  one  that  love? 
me,  and  that  looks  to  me,  for  his  sake  ?  No,  father.  1 
will  then  give  him  up  forever.  I  will  come  home  to 
you." 

"  And  then  thou  wilt  worry  and  fret  thy  life  out." 

"  I  will  be  a  good  daughter.  I  will  then  do  all 
you  wish  me  to  do." 

"God  love  thee!  I  will  make  no  bargain  with  my 
own  dear  little  lass.  If  I  let  thee  go,  I  will  let  thee  go 
freely ;  for  no  matter  how  things  turned,  I  could  not 
press  a  bargain  with  thee.  Could  I,  Francesca  ? " 

"  No,  my  father.  You  would  lose  your  last  hope 
first." 

"  Now,  then,  listen,  and  don't  thee  be  put  out  at 
what  I  say.  I  must  help  thee  to  look  at  every  side  of 
so  important  a  question.  It  means  so  much  to  so 
many.  Maybe  then  thou  wilt  find  Lancelot  easier  thaa 
thou  thinks  for.  Maybe  thou  wilt  hardly  know  th<i 
man  whom  thou  hast  loved  so  truly.  He  has  been  liv- 
ing in  one  kind  of  a  way,  and  thou  hast  been  living  in 
another  kind  of  a  way.  Perhaps  thou  wilt  meet  an  al- 
together different  Lancelot  to  the  image  thou  has  nursed 
in  thy  own  fond  heart — a  Lancelot  thy  high,  pure  nature 
could  not  love  and  could  not  trust.  What  would  thou 
do  in  such  a  case  as  that  ?  " 

"If  he  came  back  to  England  must  I  not  keep  my 
word  ?  I  have  no  fear  of  Lancelot  changing  for  the 
worse." 

"  Keep  thy  word  ?  Not  always.  Circumstances  alter 
cases.  It  is  pretty  easy  to  do  blundering  wrongs  under 
the  name  of  truth  and  honor." 

"  I  never  heard  you  talk  in  such  a  way  before,  father.'1 


"THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE."     269 

"  Maybe  not.  I  went  with  Clara  into  the  village 
school  the  other  day,  and  heard  a  lad  saying  some 
verses  they  call  '  Casabianca.'  Clara  called  them  very 
silly  verses,  and  I  came  to  think  she  wasn't  far  wrong." 

"  Father!" 

"  Silly,  and  no  mistake.  Now,  then,  don't  thee  stand 
to  a  foolish  promise,  but  get  off  the  burning  deck  of  an 
unhappy  marriage  without  waiting  for  any  orders  but 
thy  own.  As  Clara  said :  '  If  that  boy  Casabianca  had 
been  a  better  sort  of  a  hero,  he  would  have  known 
when  to  act  under  orders  and  when  to  use  his  own 
common  sense.'  There  is  a  nobler  way  than  mere 
stupid  obedience.  Nelson  refusing  to  see  his  admiral's 
signal  at  the  battle  of  Copenhagen  was  a  bit  of  disobe- 
dience that  meant  glorious  victory.  My  dear  lass,  there 
is  a  deal  of  be-praised  Casabiancaism  in  this  world,  and 
there  is  no  worse  form  of  it  than  sticking  to  the  promise 
of  a  marriage  that  has  become  unsuitable  and  is  like  to 
be  unhappy.  There  would  be  more  honor  and  truth  in 
keeping  off  that  kind  of  a  burning  deck  than  in  stand- 
ing by  it.  So  if  Lancelot  found  is  not  all  thy  fancy 
has  painted  him,  just  issue  fresh  orders  to  thyself.  But 
I  have  not  said  yet  that  I  would  let  thee  go  at  all.  I 
must  talk  to  Clara  about  it.  I  do  not  know  what  she 
will  say  to  such  a  move.  I  will  tell  thee  plainly  it  is  a 
very  great  trial  to  me  only  to  think  of  parting  with  thee. 
But,  my  dear,  I  would  lay  my  hands  under  thy  feet  to 
make  thee  happy.  It  must  be  something  more  than  my 
own  feelings  that  says  '  No '  to  any  wish  of  thine." 

And,  of  course,  Clara  combated  all  doubts  and  fears 
and  reluctances  with  a  tact  that  left  the  squire  without 
a  single  reasonable  opposition.  She  would  not  admit 


270  LOVE  FOR  AX  HOUR. 

that  the  customs  and  traditions  of  other  ladies  of  Ather- 
ton  ought  in  any  way  to  control  Francesca's  life.  Fran- 
cesca  lived  in  a  different  period,  surrounded  by  changing 
ideas  and  by  changed  circumstances.  Old  models 
would  not  fit  her  conditions;  she  was  compelled  to 
order  her  life  to  its  own  individuality.  As  for  danger, 
Clara  would  not  admit  the  possibility.  She  had  been  a 
great  traveler;  many  ladies  of  her  acquaintance  had 
traveled  still  more.  Slight  inconveniences  there  might 
be,  but  it  would  be  good  for  Francesca  to  have  her 
thoughts  diverted  from  the  loss  of  her  lover  to  little 
physical  inconveniences. 

"  You  know,  squire,"  she  said,  "  how  pressing  and 
absorbing  such  trials  can  be ;  for  I  once  saw  you  fret 
for  a  whole  week  about  the  loss  of  your  shaving-soap — 
on  your  wedding-trip,  too !  " 

"She  may  come  across  that  young  man,  Clara. 
Women  are  not  only  good  seekers,  they  are  good  find- 
ers ;  and  I  do  not  wish  her  to  meet  him  again." 

"  I  never  saw  the  young  man,  Rashleigh,  and  I  can- 
not say  I  am  much  impressed  in  his  favor.  Any  reason 
for  his  total  silence,  within  the  bounds  of  honor,  seems 
to  me  improbable.  I  think,  with  you,  that  Francesca 
ought  to  do  better.  But  it  is  necessary  to  get  abso- 
lutely rid  of  this  old  lover  before  Francesca  can  be  in- 
duced to  consider  a  new  one.  I  know  something  of 
Mexico.  If  young  Leigh  is  in  that  country,  he  will  not 
be  easy  to  find.  The  Mexican  dress  is  picturesque. 
No  handsome  man  would  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
adopting  it.  And  his  name  will  have  suffered  that 
change  which  Latin  races  delight  themselves  in  making. 
The  wisest  way  is  to  let  Francesca  go  with  her  friends 


•'THEY  WHO  LOVE  SHOW  THEIR  LOVE."     2"Jl 

Young  girls  believe  their  attachments  to  be  immortal 
They  scout  the  idea  that  any  material  thing  can  influ- 
ence them.  My  dearest  husband,  the  sea  air,  the  change 
of  air,  the  fresh  men  and  women,  the  wonderful  cities, 
the  new  clothing  to  wear  and  the  new  viands  to  eat, 
will  all  insensibly  blot  out  that  sentimental  idea  which 
has  been  so  well  nursed  by  her  seclusion  among  the 
very  scenes  and  circumstances  which  gave  it  birth. 
When  Francesca  comes  back,  we  will  give  her  a  season 
in  London  and  marry  her  to  a  lord." 

"  I  would  rather  she  married  a  middling  well-to-do 
Yorkshire  squire." 

"  Very  good.  Then  we  will  have  fine  house  parties 
and  bring  some  well-to-do  young  squires  to  her  feet." 

"  My  word,  Clara !  Thou  can  talk  a  man  out  of  his 
boots." 

"  That  is  a  poor  compliment,  Rashleigh,  after  I  have 
talked  a  Yorkshire  squire  out  of  his  heart." 

And  the  squire  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  inches,  and 
a  flush  of  pride  and  love  covered  his  large,  open  face ; 
and  he  bowed  to  his  wife,  as  men  have  almost  forgotten 
how  to  bow  in  these  days — a  noble  inclination  of  both 
soul  and  body,  a  mingling  of  veneration,  courtesy,  high- 
breeding  and  a  sincere  desire  to  please — something  very 
different  from  the  casual  nod  or  the  passing  tilt  of  the 
hat. 

Half  an  hour  afterward,  Clara  and  Francesca  were 
trying  to  decide  upon  the  proper  trunk  for  the  Mexican 
trip,  and  the  proper  clothing  with  which  to  fill  it. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

IN    SEARCH    OF    LOVE. 

"  Wise  men  ne'er  sit  and  wail  their  loss, 
But  cheerly  seek  how  to  redress  their  harms." 

"  For  Love's  sweet  sake  they  bid  her  stay ; 
She  hung  her  head  but  answered  straight — 
'  For  Love's  sweet  sake  I  go  my  way.'  " 

WHEN  a  current  of  life  sets  strongly  in  one  direc- 
tion, it  is  remarkable  how  many  smaller  currents 
set  in  the  same  direction.     Within  two  days  there  came 
a  letter  from  Doctor  Thorpe  to  Francesca,  asking  her 
if  she  could  give  him  any  information  about  Lancelot. 

"The  next  heirs,"  he  said,  "are  already  moving  to  get  charge 
of  the  property,  on  the  supposition  that  so  long  a  silence  indicates 
death." 

This  letter  set  Clara  to  asking  questions,  and  finally 
induced  in  her  a  strong  belief  that  Doctor  Thorpe  was 
at  least  acquainted  with  the  reasons  for  Lancelot's 
strange  and  determined  silence. 

"And  you  ought  to  know  these  reasons,  whatever 
they  are,"  she  said,  positively,  to  Francesca.  "  Indeed, 
my  dear,  they  may  be  such  as  would  justly  prevent  your 
seeking  your  lover,  because  a  meeting  might  only  be 
re-opening  a  wound.  You  must  go  and  see  Doctor 
Thorpe.  You  can  go  to  Leigh  this  afternoon,  stay 
with  Mrs.  Idle  all  night,  and  return  to  Atherton  early 


SEARCH  OF  LOVE. 


273 


to-morrow.  I  dare  say  your  father  will  like  to  drive 
you." 

To  this  plan  there  were  no  objections  made,  and  both 
father  and  daughter  threw  away  all  thought  of  their 
parting  and  endeavored  to  make  the  trip  as  charming 
to  each  other  as  possible.  Doctor  Thorpe's  house  was 
not  far  from  Idleholme,  and  in  the  evening  Francesca 
found  him  there  and  at  liberty. 

How  is  it  that  a  bachelor's  house  can  be  known  the 
moment  it  is  entered  ?  Everything  was  in  the  neatest 
order,  but  Francesca  knew  there  was  no  wife  in  the  tidy 
place.  Doctor  Thorpe  sat  by  a  large  fire ;  he  had  his 
slippers  on,  and  was  reading  and  making  notes  from  a 
folio  on  a  table  before  him.  He  was  a  little  astonished 
at  Francesca's  appearance,  and  said,  with  an  air  of 
apology : 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  a  letter  would  have  answered 
my  letter." 

"  No,  it  would  not,  doctor.  At  least,  I  want  to  tell 
you  something,  and  ask  you  something.  I  am  going  to 
Mexico  to  look  for  Lancelot — unless  you  know  of  any 
good  reason  why  Lancelot  and  I  ought  never  to  meet 
again.  If  you  do,  in  such  a  case  as  this  I  not  only 
ask,  I  deserve,  your  confidence." 

"  Going  to  Mexico  to  look  for  Lancelot!  My  dear, 
let  me  kiss  you  for  the  thought!  My  dear,  if  I  was 
not  an  old  man  I  would  kiss  the  feet  that  dare  so  sweet 
and  true  a  pilgrimage!  My  dear,  you  should  have 
lived  a  century  ago.  I  will  tell  you  the  truth — the 
whole  truth,  for  you  do  indeed  deserve  it.  And  may 
God  send  you  and  Lancelot  together,  for  he  is  a  good 
lad — a  lad  any  good  girl  may  safely  love." 


2/4  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"  Why  has  he  never  written  to  me  ?  Why  has  he  hid 
himself  away  ?  If  there  were  reasons  forbidding  our 
marriage,  he  might  at  least  have  told  me  them.  He 
might  have  come  and  bid  me  'farewell.'  He  might 
have  sent  me  occasionally  some  token  of  his  remem- 
brance." 

"  When  Lancelot  left  his  home  and  his  love,  he  be- 
lieved that  there  were  insurmountable  obstacles  to  his 
marriage  with  you,  not  only  at  that  time,  but  forever. 
He  believed — "  and  then  the  doctor  drew  his  chair 
close  to  Francesca's  and  dropped  his  voice  to  its  lowest 
key — "  my  dear,  he  believed  that  his  mother  was  either 
an  insane  woman  or  a  murderess.  I  had  the  same 
awful  doubt.  I  had  loved  Martha  Leigh  as  you  love 
her  son,  and  I  understood  what  the  young  man  suffered. 
My  dear,  he  was  the  most  hopeless  and  broken-hearted 
of  men ;  and  though  he  looked  at  me  with  such  eyes  as 
almost  tempted  me  to  say  a  word  of  comfort  to  him,  I 
did  not  dare — at  that  time,  to  do  so.  Now,  I  am  con- 
vinced of  two  circumstances  which  materially  affect  his 
position." 

"What  are  they,  doctor?  Surely  you  will  tell  them 
to  me." 

"  The  first  is  that  Martha  Leigh  was  actually  insane 
and  quite  irresponsible  for  her  action ;  the  second,  that 
her  insanity  was  an  individual  trait ;  she  had  no  taint 
from  her  forefathers,  and  she  transmitted  none  to  her 
children.  In  fact,  her  insanity  was  the  result  of  long- 
continued  anxiety  ever  tending  to  the  same  end.  The 
strain  was  too  great  upon  certain  faculties ;  indeed,  my 
dear,  when  we  try  to  see  beyond  the  grave  while  still 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOVE.  275 

on  this  side  of  it,  we  must  either  miserably  deceive  or 
fatally  injure  ourselves." 

"  She  was  insane,  then,  when  Lancelot  left  ? " 

"  She  had  undoubtedly  lost  her  mental  balance.  But 
when  Lancelot  left,  there  was  still  so  much  method  in 
her  madness,  she  was  so  insistent  on  her  own  sanity, 
that  it  was  impossible  even  for  me  to  say,  'This 
woman  is  insane ;  '  and  yet  equally  impossible  to  say, 
'This  woman  is  practically  a  murderess,  for  she  has  of 
purpose  and  wicked  intent  withheld  the  medicines 
which  would  have  saved  her  husband's  life.'  Do  you 
understand  what  a  cruel  strait  Lancelot  was  in  then  ? " 

"Yes!  Yes!  But  was  such  absolute  silence  neces- 
sary ? " 

•"I  am  sure  it  was  the  only  wise  and  kind  thing. 
What  could  he  have  told  you?  How  could  he  have 
told  you  ?  Can  a  son  accuse  his  mother  ?  Would  you 
have  continued  to  love  him  if  he  had  done  so  ?  And 
let  me  tell  you  that  his  utter  silence  is  the  expression  of 
the  noblest  self-denial  and  self-effacement.  If  his  life 
was  ruined,  he  did  not  wish  to  ruin  yours  also.  He 
hoped  you  would  forget  him,  and  love  and  be  happy 
with  some  more  fortunate  lover.  A  small,  selfish  man 
would  have  demanded  remembrance,  if  he  had  broken 
your  heart  to  obtain  for  himself  such  consolation  to  his 
pride  and  self-love.  Poor  Lancelot!  He  was  made 
of  earth's  best  blood  and  noblest  aspirations.  Some 
men  would  have  called  his  honor  to  his  dead  father  and 
his  refusal  to  touch  a  penny  of  what  he  believed  ought 
still  to  have  been  his  father's  a  very  quixotic  proceed- 
ing ;  I  think  he  acted  under  the  noblest  impulse  that 


276  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

governs  us — love  grounded  upon  justice  and  honor. 
Now — now — he  may  wisely  and  lawfully  be  more 
worldlike.  Now  he  may  take  what  death  has  left  him 
without  a  single  reproach  from  his  sensitive  conscience." 

"  May  I  tell  my  father  these  things?  He  has  been  a 
little  set  against  Lancelot." 

"  I  do  not  blame  him  for  being  set  against  Lancelot. 
Any  father  judging  in  the  dark  would  be.  Yes,  you 
may  tell  the  squire.  He  has  no  small  places  in  his 
make-up.  When  he  sees  the  right,  he  will  say  the 
right." 

These  were  the  main  points  of  a  conversation  which 
lasted  far  into  the  night.  Every  fact  and  detail  in  it 
spoke  to  Francesca  for  her  absent  lover.  She  remem- 
bered Lancelot's  great  love  for  his  father,  she  under- 
stood the  living  agony  of  the  affectionate  son  in  the 
presence  of  doubts  so  terrible — of  love  so  tender.  The 
tragedy  was  too  great  for  realization  at  once,  but  it 
drove  away  sleep  and  compelled  her  through  the  long 
midnight  hours  to  suffer  all  its  pangs ;  not  only  with 
her  lost  lover,  but  with  the  lonely,  unhappy  mother,  who 
had  slowly  died  with  her  heart's  unutterable  longings 
and  despairs  unsatisfied  and  unlightened. 

As  they  rode  slowly  back  to  Atherton,  Francesca  told 
her  father  with  conscientious  distinctness  all  that  Doctor 
Thorpe  had  confided  to  her.  The  squire  listened 
silently,  bending  slightly  forward,  with  set  lips  and  eyes 
cast  resolutely  down.  But  when  all  had  been  spoken, 
and  she  asked,  "  Do  you  blame  Lancelot  now,  fa- 
ther?" he  answered,  "No!  I  do  not  blame  Lance- 
lot. I  say  he  acted  like  a  man  of  honor  should  have 
done.  I  am  sure  his  mother  was  out  of  her  mind." 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOVE.  277 

"And  I  remember  that  you  thought  her  very  queer 
on  the  day  of  her  husband's  funeral." 

"  On  the  day  of  Stephen  Leigh's  burying  she  behaved 
to  me  as  no  woman  in  her  senses  would  have  done. 
And  I  did  wonder  at  it ;  because  for  simple  worldly 
wit  and  plain  common  sense  the  Le-ighs,  father  and 
son,  mother  and  daughter,  have  been  known  far  and 
wide  for  many  a  generation.  I  have  heard  said  since  I 
was  a  boy  '  that  a  bird  out  of  Leigh's  nest  was  always 
a  wise  bird ;  able  to  make  its  way,  and  to  hold  its 
day.' " 

"  Doctor  Thorpe  said  she  had  become  insane  with 
fretting  about  Mr.  Leigh's  speculations  endangering  her 
home ;  and  by  encouraging  the  idea  that  she  could  see 
and  talk  with  the  dead." 

"Poor  woman!  Maybe  now  she  was  born  when 
those  bad  planets  and  the  moon  were  opposing  one  an- 
other. Thou  heard  what  Dick  said  about  Saturn  and 
Mars  and  Mercury,  and  I  am  very  sure  Mrs.  Leigh  was 
insane  enough  to  have  been  born  in  the  thick  of  their 
opposition.  It  is  a  queer  world,  Francesca,  and  what 
we  do  not  know  about  it  would  make  a  big  book,  my 
dear." 

"  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  all  that  Doctor  Thorpe 
said  to  me." 

"  To  be  sure.  Thou  would  have  been  a  poor  daugh- 
ter to  have  put  such  secrets  out  of  my  hearing.  My 
dear  girl,  I  trust  thee  like  my  own  soul.  The  honor  of 
thy  name  and  of  thy  father's  house  is  in  thy  hands.  In 
England  or  Mexico,  this  side  the  world  or  the  other, 
thou  wilt  remember  that.  The  past  has  a  lien  on  thee, 
and  the  future  has  a  right  in  thee.  No  man  and  no 


2/8  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

woman  can  live  for  themselves  alone,  unless  they  be 
selfish  as  the  brutes  that  perish." 

Then  she  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  him,  and  he  saw 
her  pure,  strong  soul  shining  through  her  eyes,  and  he 
felt  the  assurance  it  gave  him  to  be  beyond  all  spoken 
words  or  oaths  or  written  bonds.  As  soon  as  Francesca 
and  the  squire  returned  to  Atherton,  Dick  and  Loida 
went  back  to  Alderson  Bars,  to  complete  their  own 
arrangements.  From  Alderson  they  would  go  to  Liver- 
pool, and  the  squire  and  Clara  promised  to  bring  Fran- 
cesca there  to  meet  them.  Between  now  and  then 
there  was  only  to  be  an  interval  of  twelve  days,  but 
Clara  said  even  that  was  ten  too  many.  The  small 
deliberations,  the  doubts  evoked  purposely  to  be  talked 
away,  the  fears  useless  to  combat  while  they  were  so 
far  off,  the  small  consultations  about  the  care  of  cloth- 
ing, the  formal  little  notes  of  farewell  to  every  acquaint- 
ance, the  wonderful  forethought  about  such  trifles  as 
pins,  needles,  and  hair-dressing — all  these  petty  incident- 
als of  travel  amused  and  a  trifle  annoyed  a  woman  so 
ready  and  impulsive  as  Clara. 

"A  ticket  taken  and  ten  hours'  notice,  and  I  am 
ready  to  go  round  the  world  by  the  great  Wall  of 
China,"  she  said ;  "  and  you  are  taking  lots  of  things, 
Francesca,  that  you  will  throw  away  before  you  get 
back." 

However,  all  events  come  and  go  whether  we  have 
patience  or  not,  and  the  moment  arrived  for  Francesca's 
last  words  of  farewell.  She  said  them  with  tears,  with 
an  undisguised  emotion,  with  a  desperate  feeling  that 
even  at  this  final  moment  she  must  abandon  her  inten- 
tion, and  stay  by  the  father  whose  blank,  speechless 


IN  SEARCH  OF'  LOVE.  279 

grief  and  anxiety  were  so  pitifully  evident  through  all 
his  attempts  at  smiles  and  nods  and  waving  kerchiefs. 

The  squire  and  Clara  did  not  wait  for  the  lifting  of 
the  anchor.  The  squire  thought  it  was  not  lucky  to 
watch  those  going  away  out  of  sight. 

"  If  you  do,  they  never  come  back  again,"  he  said, 
with  a  childlike  pathos. 

"  Rashleigh,  I  do  hope  you  are  not  superstitious — an 
observer  of  freits  and  signs."  And  Clara  shook  her 
head  gravely. 

"  No,  no,  Clara!  I  am  not  superstitious;  not  a  bit 
of  it.  But,  then,  it  is  just  as  well  to  have  the  signs  on 
the  right  side.  Eh,  my  dear?  " 

She  laughed,  and  turned  the  conversation  on  Loida. 

"  How  complacently  cheerful  and  satisfied  she  looked 
upon  Dick's  arm!  Did  you  notice  her,  Rashleigh? 
Her  whole  air  seemed  to  say :  '  Look  at  Dick  Alder- 
son — at  my  Dick  Alderson!  Consider  Dick's  wisdom 
and  Dick's  bravery  and  Dick's  knowledge  of  everything. 
Did  ever  any  husband  love  his  wife  as  much  as  Dick 
loves  me  ?  Were  ever  any  couple  happy  before  ?  Does 
not  every  sensible  person  wish  to  be  as  Dick  and  I 
are?'  Women  who  marry  late  in  life  are  such  fools 
about  their  husbands." 

"  Clara,  when  you  married  me,  you  were — " 

"  I  know,  Rashleigh — I  know.  I  was  a  fool,  also, 
about  my  husband.  I  thought  you  handsomer  than  you 
are,  and  better  than  you  are.  I  invented  for  you  all 
the  good  qualifies  which  nature  had  not  given  you. 
Yes,  I  was  decidedly  foolish  about  you." 

The  jolting  of  the  cab  and  its  rattle  over  the  cobble- 
stones broke  the  confession  into  charming  little  bits. 


280  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

In  spite  of  his  gloomy  forebodings,  the  squire  could  not 
help  smiling.  He  felt  bound,  also,  to  defend  Loida's 
absorption  in  her  husband. 

"  She  suffered  a  deal  for  him,  Clara,"  he  said,  "  and 
she  lost  ten  years  of  her  love-life.  She  has  to  make  it 
up  some  way,  my  dear.  Think  of  that." 

"  I  do  reflect  upon  these  things,  Rashleigh ;  and 
Loida  is  really  a  very  delightful  woman,  besides  being, 
in  her  present  state  of  Dick-adoration,  a  most  sensible 
companion  for  Francesca.  She  will  talk  of  Dick  and 
wonder  about  Dick  a  good  deal ;  and  that  is  a  great 
deal  better  than  an  hourly  canonization  of  the  young 
Saint  Lancelot.  How  dismal  is  this  dismal  square,  and 
the  old  yellow  church,  and  the  rain  trailing  down  the 
dirty  windows!  How  dreadful  is  black  rain  and  bleak 
winds  inclosed  between  stone  houses!" 

"  Let  us  be  thankful  we  have  got  under  cover.  Now, 
then,  draw  the  blinds  and  come  to  the  fire.  It  is  very 
cheerful." 

Clara  laughed. 

"  An  open  fire,"  she  said,  "  is  an  Englishman's  fetich  ; 
he  thinks  it  ought  to  give  comfort  under  all  circum- 
stances." But  she  put  a  chair  before  the  blaze  and 
tried  to  fall  into  her  husband's  mood  of  concentration, 
and  she  soon  found  herself  discussing  with  animation 
the  probabilities  of  the  little  drama  at  which  they  had 
both  been  assisters  and  spectators. 

"  It  is  possible  they  may  come  across  Lancelot  Leigh, 
but  not  at  all  probable.  We  will  consider  first  the  pos- 
sible. Suppose,  Rashleigh,  that  Lancelot  is  found; 
suppose  Francesca  and  he  are  married,  then  what  is  to 
be  done  with  them  ?  After  marriage  comes  housekeep- 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOVE.  28 1 

ing ;  and  young  men  who  go  away  to  seek  a  fortune 
never  find  one." 

"  Lancelot  has  his  father's  estate.  There  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  take  possession  of  it.  He  can  sell 
the  mill  property  for  a  pretty  sum  at  this  time ;  and  the 
house — " 

"It  would  be  a  crime  to  sell  the  house.  Besides,  that 
poor  old  woman  could  never  rest  in  her  grave  if  such  a 
thing  wafc  done.  I  think  the  feelings  of  the  dead  ought 
to  be  consulted  a  little.  You  would  resign  the  mill  at 
Atherton  to  Lancelot  ? " 

"Most  gladly.  I  am  running  the  mill  for  the  sake  of 
the  village,  not  for  the  profits." 

"  There  is  the  Dower  House.  It  is  a  pretty  spot, 
and  upon  Atherton  ground,  Rashleigh." 

"  My  dear,  when  I  die  that  is  your  house,  and — " 

"  Indeed,  it  is  not  my  house,  sir.  Do  you  imagine  I 
could  subside  into  a  second-rate  dowager  ?  If  I  am  so 
unhappy  as  to  survive  you,  I  have  my  own  house  in 
Boston,  United  States  of  America.  I  shall  go  to  it  at 
once." 

"Then  the  Dower  House  can  be  refurnished  and 
beautified.  Lancelot  had  a  wish  to  buy  more  land,  and 
it  is  not  right  for  the  lady  of  the  manor  to  live  away 
from  the  manor." 

"  Francesca  has  not  yet  come  to  her  kingdom.  'I  am 
Lady  of  Atherton  Manor  at  present.  There  cannot  be 
two  at  the  same  time ;  so  that  is  no  reason  for  putting 
Leigh  House  out  of  consideration.  It  is  a  pretty  old 
place,  and  it  has  associations  that  no  money  can  buy. 
Francesca  has  told  me  about  its  fine  rooms  full  of  sad 
consciousness.  She  said  she  could  shut  her  eyes  and 


282  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

fancy  shadows  walking  quietly  about  them,  every  one  in 
dark  garments  and  wearing  their  veils  so  great  and 
long." 

"  Hush,  my  dear!  Thou  makes  me  feel  creepy  and 
eerie  as  can  be." 

"  And  the  queer  old  garden,  too,  with  its  zigzag  ways 
and  its  somber  clusters  of  shrubs,  its  twisted  trees  and 
strange  plants.  Francesca  fancied  she  heard  voices  be- 
hind them  and  strange  words  and  weird  trembling — " 

"  Wilt  thou  be  quiet,  Clara  ?  Now,  then,  let  us  talk 
of  the  mill  and  something  this-worldlike — other  world- 
liness  is  none  of  our  business  yet.'' 

"  Very  well,  Rashleigh.  I  suppose  it  is  the  fire 
makes  me  remember  such  things — the  fire  is  full  of 
dreams.  Or  perhaps  it  is  the  pattering  outside,  or 
those  dismal  church-bells,  or  that  most  wretched 
woman's  voice,  singing  love-songs  in  the  storm,  the 
while  she  is  starving  for  a  crust  of  bread.  Open  the 
window  and  give  her  a  shilling.  Poor  soul!  If  you 
want  something  this-worldlike,  I  am  sure  she  will  do." 

The  squire  obeyed  his  wife's  wish,  and  then  sat  down 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Francesca  is  far  out  at  sea  now,"  he  said,  "  but  she 
will  return  in  six  months,  eh,  Clara  ?  " 

"  In  six  months  she  will  return,  cured  of  the  Leigh 
fever — or  at  least  convalescent — or  she  will  come  back 
Leigh-forever!  In  the  first  case,  we  must  carry  her  to 
pastures  new  for  new  lovers." 

"  And  in  the  second,  what  then,  Clara  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  choice  of  Atherton  Mill  and  the  Dower 
House,  or  of  Garsby  Mill  and  the  old  Leigh  home.  Is 
there  not  a  choice  ? " 


IN  SEARCH  OF  LOVE.  283 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,  Clara.  Whatever  is  the  use  of 
handicapping  fate  by  forespeaking  it  ?  I'm  very  tired. 
Day  and  day  is  quite  enough.  Let  six  months  alone. 
That  is  what  I  say,  eh,  Clara  ?  " 

"  You  are  right,  Rashleigh ;  day  and  day,  and  the 
comfortable  night  to  round  each  day  with  a  blessed 
sleep." 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

AND    NOW    LOVE    SANG! 

"White-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  angel  girt  with  golden  wings ! " 

"  Who,  as  they  sang,  would  take  the  prisoned  sonl 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium." 

Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss! — Milton. 

For  all  we  know 
Of  what  the  blessed  do  above 
Is  that  they  sing,  and  that  they  love. — Waller. 

FAR  out  at  sea!  The  squire  had  remembered  the 
fact  with  a  quick,  sick  terror  of  heart ;  and  at  the 
same  moment  Francesca  was  beginning  to  realize  the 
full  importance  of  the  step  she  had  taken.  She  sat  in 
her  solitary  state-room  like  a  child  cast  adrift  from 
home  and  love,  and  she  was  afraid  of'  the  dark  ship  and 
the  moaning  winds  and  the  breaking  of  the  waves 
against  her  temporary  shelter.  The  water  was  so  close 
to  her — only  a  plank  between  her  and  eternity! 

At  that  hour  she  was  too  much  depressed  and  too 
much  terrified  to  remember  how  much  in  love  she  was. 
Her  father  and  her  dear  home,  and  the  orderly,  calm 
life  to  which  she  was  accustomed  was  the  supreme 
craving  of  her  heart.  Some  days  of  inert  misery  fol- 
lowed, and  then  the  worst  was  over ;  a  brilliant  sunshine, 
an  atmosphere  charged  with  oxygen  and  ozone  soon 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG  I  285 

made  life  not  only  possible  but  also  full  of  anticipated 
delights. 

And  after  the  infinite  monotony  of  nine  days  at  sea, 
how  charming,  how  wonderful  was  the  first  glimpse  of 
that  great  city  rising,  as  it  were,  out  of  it!  It  was  also 
the  happy  month  between  Thanksgiving  and  Christmas, 
and  New  York  was  wearing  all  her  holiday  decorations, 
and  displaying  all  her  beauty  and  all  her  wealth. 

There  had  never  been  the  least  supposition  that  Lan- 
celot had  drifted  so  far  north  as  New  York,  yet  Fran- 
cesca  felt  herself  to  be  ever  on  the  watch.  The  comers 
and  goers  in  the  hotel,  the  gay  company  in  the  theaters, 
the  loitering  crowd  on  the  main  thoroughfares,  were 
under  her  constant  inspection.  It  was  impossible  to  say 
in  what  place  Lancelot  might  be  found ;  therefore  she 
would  seek  him  wherever  her  footsteps  led  her,  and  surely 
love  would  bring  them  in  some  happy  hour  together. 

But  New  York  had  nothing  to  tell  her  and  nothing  to 
give  her,  and  as  far  as  Lancelot  was  concerned  Wash- 
ington and  New  Orleans  were  equally  destitute  of  hope 
and  comfort.  However,  as  Dick  said :  "  No  one  had 
the  least  expectation  of  either  meeting  with  or  hearing 
of  Lancelot  in  the  United  States.  The  young  man  had 
gone  to  Mexico,  he  had  been  heard  from  in  Mexico, 
and  it  was  his  opinion  he  would  be  found  in  some  small 
interior  village  of  that  country." 

And  Francesca  answered : 

"To  be  sure.  She  did  not  expect  anything  until 
Mexico  was  reached." 

And  Loida  pitied  her  effort  to  smile,  knowing  that  her 
heart  was  heavy  and  anxious,  and  that  home-sickness 
and  love-sickness  were  striving  hard  within  it. 


286  LOVE   FOR   AN  HOUR. 

At  length  they  were  in  Vera  Cruz,  that  melancholy 
city  of  unfinished  and  decaying  grandeur.  Dick  was 
now  quite  at  home.  Francesca  thought  she  had  never 
seen  him  so  important,  so  full  of  a  pleasant  authority, 
so  very  much  Senor  Alderson.  He  assumed  again  a 
semi-Mexican  costume ;  he  spoke  the  language  with  a 
fluency  and  a  force  that  astonished  the  ladies.  Indeed, 
Loida  timidly  suggested  "  she  believed  Dick  was  really 
swearing  at  the  servants ;  she  hoped  he  was  not,  but  it 
sounded  very  like  it." 

Dick  only  smiled  at  a  still  more  pointed  inquiry  on 
this  subject,  though  he  was  rather  inclined  to  volunteer 
information  of  all  kinds  to  his  companions.  And  as  it 
was  not  the  bad  season,  he  was  enabled  to  show  them 
the  city,  with  its  domes  of  various  colors,  its  grand 
cathedral,  its  steeples  shooting  up  into  the  air,  its  large, 
gloomy  houses,  with  their  massively  grated  balconies. 
The  rich,  picturesque  dresses  of  the  men  of  all  grades 
and  of  the  lower  orders  of  women  added  greatly  to  the 
Eastern  look  of  this  far  Western  city.  And  after  sunset 
there  was  something  dreamlike  and  mysterious  in  the 
quiet  streets.  For  then  the  presence  of  the  noble  and 
wealthy  women  was  revealed  by  the  murmur  of  voices, 
the  rustling  of  fans,  and  the  white-robed  beauties — 
blanched  by  the  rays  of  the  moon — sitting  behind  half- 
opened  Venetian  blinds. 

But  though  Dick  went  carefully  over  the  ground 
already  examined  by  Captain  Benton,  nothing  new  was 
discovered.  Lancelot  had  stayed  two  days  at  the  hotel 
San  Juan  de  Ulloa,  and  had  then  gone  forward  to 
Bocca  del  Rio.  Here  his  stay  had  been  short,  but  it 
was  proven  that  there  he  had  become  intimate  with  a 


AND  NOW  LOVE  SANG!  287 

Mexican  lawyer,  and  that  they  had  gone  forward  to- 
gether to  the  gorges  of  Cerro  Gordo  and  the  great 
bridge  over  the  river  Antigua,  called  the  Puente 
Nacional.  At  this  point  they  separated,  the  lawyer 
returning  to  Vera  Cruz,  and  Lancelot  going  forward  to 
Lancero.  Then  Dick  found  out  the  lawyer,  but  he 
could  tell  him  nothing  that  was  not  already  known. 

So  the  party  went  forward  to  Lancero,  where  they 
rested  for  some  days ;  for  here  the  sight  of  the  oak-tree 
announced  to  the  travelers  that  they  had  passed  the 
region  of  fever  and  pestilence.  Loida  was  exceedingly 
depressed  and  weary  with  the  constant  excitement  and 
change.  She  was  suffering  from  climatic  influences, 
also,  and  life  seemed  impossible  to  her  until  she  had  re- 
covered strength  to  take  a  fresh  hold  upon  its  strange 
and  many-colored  threads.  Francesca  was  singularly 
well.  A  feeling  of  expectancy  upheld  her.  At  Lancero 
Lancelot  had  remained  a  week.  Here  there  were 
plenty  of  traces  of  the  young  man.  At  the  venta  where 
he  had  lodged  the  host  and  his  wife  remembered  him 
well.  He  had  bought  a  horse  there,  and  had  become 
familiar  with  the  people  in  the  jacales.  Also,  he  had 
been  entertained  by  the  officer  in  charge  of  Santa 
Anna's  country-house  at  Lancero,  and  Francesca  went 
with  Dick  to  the  little  building,  with  its  red-stained 
walls  and  modest  veranda  surmounted  by  a  belvedere 
of  glass.  She  sat  in  the  chair  Lancelot  had  used,  and 
Dick  translated  for  her  such  of  the  conversation  as  the 
man  remembered. 

Hope  grew  apace  in  such  favorable  conditions.  At 
last  she  began  to  feel  that  her  pilgrimage  of  love  was 
not  predestined  to  sorrow  and  fatigue  and  failure.  Here 


288  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

also  they  procured  a  litera,  or  kind  of  palanquin,  in 
which  Loida  and  Francesca  passed  over  the  Tierra 
Caliente,  or  Burning  Land,  between  this  part  of  the  road 
and  Jalapa,  where  they  arrived  one  day  about  noon. 
For  the  first  time  since  they  had  left  the  United  States 
Loida  and  Francesca  were  enthusiastic,  and  forgot  their 
small  personal  interests  in  the  beauty  of  the  place  and 
its  environs. 

For  Jalapa,  with  all  its  enchantments,  was  upon  them 
— the  steep  streets,  with  the  blue  and  red  houses  peep- 
ing out  of  clumps  of  guava  trees,  of  liquid-ambar  and 
palms ;  the  hedges  of  datura  and  jasmine  and  honey- 
suckle ;  the  mountains  overhanging  the  town ;  the  rocks 
covered  with  convolvuli ;  the  thousand  streams  from 
their  sides ;  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  deep  blue 
of  the  hills  blending  into  one.  Surely,  if  there  was  a 
heaven  for  love  on  this  earth,  it  was  here — here  at 
fair  Jalapa. 

At  the  "  Posada  Francesca,"  Francesca  was  sensible 
of  that  conviction  of  desire  accomplished  which  so  often 
ends  in  disappointment.  She  was  sure  Lancelot  had 
lodged  in  this  very  house.  Its  name  of  "  Francesca  " 
would  make  it  dear  and  attractive.  She  stepped  hap- 
pily through  the  piazzas  surrounding  the  spacious  court, 
and  watched  the  bubbling  fountain  in  its  center  to 
thoughts  of  Lancelot.  Doubtless  he  had  stood  there, 
and  thought  of  her. 

But  there  were  no  positive  traces  of  Lancelot  at 
Jalapa.  And,  after  a  short  rest,  the  travelers  took 
advantage  of  an  American  coach  running  between 
Jalapa  and  the  City  of  Mexico.  At  every  stopping- 
place  inquiries  were  made,  and  at  Las  Vegas  and  Perote 


AND  NOW  LOVE  SANG/  289 

there  were  some  doubtful  memories  of  the  young  man ; 
but  it  seemed  hopeless  to  look  for  anything  definite 
nearer  than  the  capital. 

Francesca  had  become  depressed.  She  spent  all  her 
time  in  studying  the  language  of  the  country,  but  her 
heart  had  deceived  her  at  Jalapa,  and  she  had  now  no 
confidence  in  its  monitions.  When  love's  labor  is  con- 
tinually lost,  love  is  at  last  conscious  of  a  sense  of  weari- 
ness and  of  succumbing  to  fate. 

In  the  City  of  Mexico  they  found  an  American  hotel, 
and  gladly  made  their  stay  there.  Dick  was  now  at 
the  point  where  both  his  own  affairs  and  Francesca's 
would  be  likely  to  detain  him  for  some  weeks,  and  the 
ladies  endeavored  to  give  to  their  rooms  as  distinctively 
a  home  air  as  was  possible.  Then  life  assumed  a  some- 
what regular  aspect.  Every  morning  Dick  attended  to 
the  mining  business  which  had  brought  him  to  Mexico, 
and  which  was  delayed  by  the  absence  of  a  person  im- 
portant to  its  settlement.  In  the  cool  of  the  day  he 
wandered  about  the  city,  penetrating  into  all  the  favor- 
ite haunts  of  the  leperos,  or  Mexican  lazzarone.  For 
Dick  was  certain  that  some  of  this  class  knew  the  fate 
of  Lancelot,  if  assassination  had  terminated  it. 

And  as  soon  as  his  business  permitted  the  temporary 
absence,  he  resolved  to  go  to  the  San  Lepato  mines. 
He  had  indeed  written  there,  and  received  an  answer 
which  contained  a  hope  he  did  not  think  it  wise  to  give 
Francesca ;  because  he  was  aware  of  the  difficulties  en- 
compassing the  recognition  of  an  Englishman,  who,  if 
there  at  all,  had  speedily  left,  and  who  understood  very 
little  that  was  said  to  him.  Indeed,  the  many  doubts 
thrown  around  the  visitor  presumed  to  be  Senor  Leigh 


2gO  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOUR. 

appeared  to  Dick  to  far  outweigh  any  likelihood  of 
assured  information. 

He  had  resolved  to  go  alone  to  San  Lepato,  but  he 
found  Loida  and  Francesca  had  quite  determined  to 
see  the  mines,  and  it  was  in  vain  he  represented  to  them 
the  mountains  they  must  climb  or  the  many  dangers 
and  fatigues  of  the  Canada  they  would  be  required  to 
traverse.  Both  women  were  sure  they  could  "go 
wherever  Dick  could  go  "  ;  and  Francesca's  face  bright- 
ened with  delight  at  the  idea  of  proving  her  affection 
by  her  fortitude  in  weariness,  by  her  contempt  for  her 
own  comfort  and  safety,  and  her  resolution  to  discover 
her  lover  at  all  risks. 

"  He  would  be  most  likely  to  disguise  himself,"  she 
said  ;  "  he  might  even  change  his  name  ;  but  under  any 
disguise  and  under  any  name,  I  should  find  him  out." 

And  after  all,  the  journey  was  not  so  very  fatiguing. 
The  season  being  early,  there  was  some  suffering  from 
cold ;  but  the  air  was  so  vivifying,  and  such  perfect 
arrangements  had  been  made  for  their  rest  and  refresh- 
ment, that  all  declared  the  journey  to  San  Lepato  had 
been,  as  yet,  the  most  delightful  part  of  their  trip.  Yet 
toward  the  close  of  it  they  were  obliged  to  go  very 
slowly,  while  their  mules  with  cautious  steps  picked 
their  way  over  the  crests  of  lofty  hills,  or  o»e  -«i  deep 
gullies  where  towering  cliffs  darkened  the  noonday. 
But  which  way  soever  they  rode,  they  crossed  frequently 
reins  of  precious  ore,  marked  even  at  the  superfices  of 
the  ground  by  a  red  oxide  of  silver  streaking  the  clefts 
of  the  rocks,  as  bright  as  a  trail  of  cinnabar. 

The  scene  affected  the  whole  party  profoundly. 
Francesca  found  it  impossible  to  converse.  A  deep 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG!  2$1 

solemnity  hushed  her  heart  and  closed  her  lips.  Loida 
answered  Dick's  remarks  in  a  low  voice.  Dick  only 
asked  such  questions  as  his  care  for  their  safety  and 
comfort  required.  They  were  in  one  of  Nature's  grand 
cathedrals,  they  felt  the  presence  of  the  Infinite,  and 
their  souls  said  reverently :  "  How  awful  is  this 
place!" 

At  length  they  reached  the  mines.  The  director  had 
been  notified  of  the  visit,  and  every  preparation  possi- 
ble had  been  made  for  their  comfortable  accommoda- 
tion. Dick  was  at  home.  He  showed  Loida  the  little 
hut  in  which  he  had  lived  so  many  years,  his  office,  his 
old  books  of  accounts,  and  a  great  number  of  the 
miners  who  had  worked  under  his  orders,  and  who  re- 
ceived him  with  noisy  delight. 

Then  such  mementos  as  had  been  left  by  visitors  were 
examined ;  and  finally  the  director  remembered  a  slip 
of  paper  upon  which  two  gentlemen  had  written  their 
names.  It  was  found,  and  given  to  Dick ;  and  the  two 
names  were  Lancelot  Leigh  and  Richard  Gilleland. 
Then  the  director,  being  urged  to  remember  all  he  could 
concerning  these  gentlemen,  said  that  "he  was  sure 
they  only  remained  two  days.  The  younger  of  them 
had  gone  down  the  mine  unto  the  third  gallery,  and  had 
then  been  so  ill  that  it  was  with  danger  and  difficulty 
he  had  been  brought  to  the  surface." 

"  It  was  the  young  senor  who  fainted.  He  fainted 
when  the  sunshine  fell  again  upon  him.  His  friend  took 
him  away  the  next  morning." 

"It  was  doubtless  Lancelot,"  said  Francesca.  " He 
loved  the  sunshine.  He  would  faint  and  perish  in  the 
gloom  and  death-air  of  a  living  pit.  It  was  surely 


2Q2  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

Lancelot!  I  would  have  said  so  even  if  he  had  left 
no  name  behind  him." 

Nothing  further  could  be  learned.  Many  visitors 
came  to  the  mines,  and  went  down  them  as  a  matter  of 
curiosity.  They  excited  no  particular  interest,  except- 
ing for  the  amount  of  gratuity  left  for  the  poor  miners. 
These  two  gentlemen  had  been  very  generous,  and  the 
paistres  they  donated  had  become  the  measure  by  which 
all  future  gifts  had  been  counted ;  and  this  circumstance 
had  preserved  a  clearer  memory  of  their  personal  ap- 
pearance. 

Inquiries  among  the  miners  who  had  seen  them  left 
no  kind  of  doubt  in  the  mind  of  Francesca  as  to  one  of 
the  visitors  being  Lancelot.  "  A  beautiful  young  man, 
with  a  sad  face,  who  walked  like  an  emperor." 

How  could  it  be  any  one  else  ?  Vague  as  the  de- 
scription was,  it  satisfied  Francesca ;  and  she  was  sure 
she  was  now  treading  the  very  places  where  Lancelot's 
feet  had  been. 

She  wished  to  go  down  the  mine  as  far  as  Lancelot 
had  gone.  Dick  could  not  frighten  her  from  the  inten- 
tion. "Had  ladies  ever  gone  so  far?"  Dick  was 
obliged  to  confess  that  "  a  party  of  American  ladies  had 
gone  even  two  galleries  deeper.". 

"  Very  well,  then,  Dick,  I  am  certain  to  go  as  far  as 
Lancelot  went,"  said  Francesca.  "  When  we  do  meet, 
Lancelot  will  understand  the  feeling  which  led  me  to 
follow  him.  At  the  point  he  turned,  my  mind  may 
catch  the  thought  of  his  mind ;  and  my  soul  may  feel 
after  his  soul,  and  I  may  divine  whether  he  went  north 
or  south  or  east  or  west." 

Never  had  Francesca  been  so  set  upon  any  move- 


AND  NOW  LOl'E   SANG  I 


293 


ment  as  upon  this  descent  into  the  San  Lepato.  And 
in  a  few  hours  her  enthusiasm  had  stimulated  Loida, 
so  that  these  two  timid  Englishwomen,  who  a  year  ago 
had  been  in  the  dark  afraid  of  a  walk  about  their  own 
house  and  garden,  were  now  eager  to  explore  the  gal- 
leries of  a  mine  hundreds  of  feet  below  the  ground. 

There  were  some  points  in  the  descent  favorable  for 
them.  The  mine  was  a  dry  one,  and  when  Dick  had 
been  its  superintendent,  he  had  substituted  railed  lad- 
ders for  the  uncouth  piece  of  notched  wood  which  had 
been  the  only  road  down  to  the  depths,  and  up  to  the 
daylight.  And  the  strength  of  their  race  was  in  the  two 
women.  They  had  determined  to  see  the  mine,  and 
they  demanded  of  their  souls  to  be  strong  enough  for 
the  task  they  had  undertaken.  Dick  found  them 
dressed  for  the  visit,  pale  but  resolute,  cheerful  and 
quite  calm. 

The  mine  was  entered  by  a  horizontal  gallery.  Af- 
ter walking  three  hundred  yards  along  it  they  came  to 
the  first  perpendicular  shaft;  and  as  shaft  succeeded 
shaft  in  a  slantwise  position  the  lights  that  shone  from 
the  bottom  of  the  mine  could  be  partially  seen  at  the 
top  of  the  first  shaft;  besides  which  the  ascending 
miners,  each  with  a  candle  in  his  helmet,  made  a  singu- 
lar moving  glow  that  faintly  indicated  the  loaded  gnomes 
passing  up  and  down. 

Dick  went  first,  Loida  followed.  Then  Dick  returned 
for  Francesca.  No  word  was  spoken.  They  stood  still 
together  on  the  first  gallery.  Gigantic  shadows  trem- 
bled over  the  walls.  Great  vaults  stretched  away  into 
the  darkness.  Rough,  glittering  pilasters  sustained 
them,  and  the  noise  of  footsteps  reverberated  in  the 


294  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

somber  caves.  From  time  to  time  lights  struggled 
through  the  deep  gloom,  the  head-lights  of  the  miners, 
whose  long,  floating  nair  and  bronzed,  nearly  naked 
bodies  looked  gigantic,  ominous,  supernatural. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  second  shaft  a  singular  sight 
arrested  their  steps,  and  made  them  feel  the  thrill  of 
emotions  that  touch  another  world.  In  a  square  of 
glittering  rocks  the  miners  had  constructed  a  rude 
chapel ;  an  altar,  lighted  by  several  wax  tapers,  was  in 
the  center,  and  a  large  cross  of  pure  silver,  bearing  the 
image  of  The  Crucified,  was  upon  it.  Kneeling  on  the 
very  steps  of  this  altar  was  an  old  man,  whose  long, 
white  hair  flowed  down  upon  his  naked  breast  and 
shoulders.  He  was  lost  in  adoration.  He  perceived 
not  the  presence  of  strangers.  Suddenly  he  stood  up- 
right and  began  to  chant : 

"  '  Santo  Dios,  santo  puerte,  santo  imortal, 
Libra  nos,  senor,  detodo  vial,'  " 

and  instantly  his  companions  in  the  rocky  caverns  joined 
in  the  solemn  melody  until  it  echoed  and  reverberated 
through  the  whole  mine,  so  that  even  the  lowest  labor 
was  vocal  with  prayer  and  praise. 

"  Out  of  the  depths  they  call  unto  Him ! "  said  Loida 
softly.  Francesca's  hands  were  dropped  and  clasped, 
her  head  bent,  her  eyes  closed.  She  was  experiencing 
one  of  those  divine  Intimacies  which  are  the  blessed 
earnests  of  our  immortal  destiny. 

Dick  was  less  moved ;  the  scene  was  familiar  to  him, 
but  its  familiarity  had  never  induced  indifference.  He 
said,  with  considerable  feeling : 

"  It  is  the  'Agios  o  Theos  agios  ischiros! '  of  the  Greek 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG!  295 

Church.  Is  it  not  enough  ?  Higher  than  all  creeds,  far 
above  all  superstitions  ?  " 

After  a  short  pause  Francesca  said,  "  Let  us  go  back," 
and  they  went  very  quietly  back  to  the  visible  earth  and 
sunshine. 

The  next  day  they  began  to  retrace  their  steps  to  the 
City  of  Mexico.  A  great  despondency  had  fallen  upon 
Francesca.  Loida  perceived  that  hope  in  her  heart  was 
dying.  The  gayeties  of  the  metropolis  gave  her  no 
pleasure,  and  she  ceased  to  make  inquiries  of  Dick  as 
she  used  to  do.  Either  she  did  not  believe  in  his  exer- 
tions, or  she  had  accepted  the  idea  of  a  final  separation 
from  her  lover.  Dick  felt  her  attitude  to  be  a  little 
provoking.  He  knew  that  he  had  done  everything 
possible  to  trace  the  young  man,  and  he  also  knew 
that  Francesca  only  half  believed  that  everything  had 
been  done. 

At  length  his  own  business  was  settled,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  no  further  reason  for  delay.  Loida,  though 
she  had  thoroughly  enjoyed  her  trip,  was  beginning  to 
think  of  her  English  home.  It  was  April,  and  she  could 
not  help  saying  continually  in  her  heart : 

"  '  Oh,  to  be  in  England, 

Now  that  April  's  there! 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
Sees  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  of  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree's  bole  ar.e  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough, 
In  England  now.'  " 

One  day,  when  Dick  was  feeling  that  a  move  home- 
ward must  no  longer  be  delayed,  he  met  in  the  lobby  of 


296  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

the  hotel  an  American,  who  pleasantly  accosted  him, 
and  then  added : 

"  Had  you  stayed  another  day  at  San  Lepato,  we 
might  have  traveled  in  company." 

"  You  have  been  at  San  Lepato,  then  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  saw  your  names  in  the  director's  office.  It 
is  a  little  singular  how  many  Yorkshire  people  go  there. 
The  last  time  I  went  to  Lepato  I  went  with  a  Yorkshire 
gentleman." 

Dick  was  on  the  alert  instantly. 

"  A  Mr.  Lancelot  Leigh,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  That  was  the  name,  sir.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  sav- 
ing his  life  and  helping  him  to  a  sort  of  settlement.  A 
very  nice  young  man,  I  think." 

"  Saving  his  life !  In  what  way  had  he  put  his  life  in 
danger  ? " 

"  In  the  most  innocent  way  in  the  world.  He  was  at 
Guadaloupe  at  the  time  of  the  feast  of  Our  Lady  of 
Guadaloupe.  So  was  I.  When  the  holy  image  of  the 
Virgin,  preceded  by  the  Host,  appeared,  Mr.  Leigh  stood 
and  gazed  at  it." 

"That  was  natural  enough." 

"  But  it  was  construed  by  the  populace  as  an  insult  to 
their  faith  and  to  the  Mexican  people,  and  the  muttered 
curses  at  his  attitude  soon  grew  to  cries  of  indignation 
and  to  drawing  of  stilettos.  Mr.  Leigh  was  quite  igno- 
rant that  he  ought  to  have  prostrated  himself,  and  that 
his  failure  to  do  so  was  an  offense  worthy  of  death." 

"  How  did  you  make  peace  ? " 

"  I  knew  the  people  and  the  language,  which  Mr. 
Leigh  did  not,  and  with  great  difficulty  I  explained  his 
ignorance.  But  the  stubborn  fellow  would  not  do  horn- 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG!  297 

age  to  Our  Lady  of  Guadaloupe,  even  to  save  his  life, 
and  my  task  was  only  accomplished  by  promising  an 
enormous  gratification  in  money  for  the  offense." 

"  How  much  did  he  have  to  pay  ? " 

"He  paid  nothing.  As  soon  as  the  procession  had 
passed  on,  we  rode  for  our  lives  northward,  and  did  not 
stop  until  the  Lepato  mines  were  reached.  Mr.  Leigh 
expected  to  find  a  friend  there,  but  he  had  left  the  mines 
when  we  arrived." 

"  Did  you  stay  there  any  length  of  time  ?  " 

"  No.  Mr.  Leigh  thought  he  might  be  secure  in  the 
mines,  but  he  found  himself  unable  to  endure  their  heat 
and  gloom.  Indeed,  he  was  made  ill  by  a  very  short 
experience  of  their  horrors,  and  he  declared  that  not  for 
all  the  silver  coined  from  them  would  he  remain  twenty- 
four  hours  in  their  depths." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  in  what  direction  he  went  after 
leaving  San  Lepato  ?  " 

"  He  went  to  Texas  in  my  company.  I  parted  with 
him  in  San  Antonio.  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  bought 
land  in  that  vicinity.  He  was  powerfully  taken  with 
that  part  of  the  country.  Never  saw  a  man  who,  gener- 
ally speaking,  went  more  naturally  to  camping  out  •  and 
using  a  rifle." 

"  Your  name  is  Richard  Gilleland  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  is  my  name.  I  have  no  occasion  to 
shirk  it."  He  was  a  sallow,  long-haired,  fiercely 
whiskered  man,  whose  great  bell-spurs  tinkled  to  his 
long  steps,  and  made  a  soft  chime  to  the  ring  of  coins 
on  the  bar  counter. 

"Do  you  really  think  he  is  now  living  near  San  An- 
tonio ? " 


298  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  know,  stranger?  I  would  be 
sorry  to  get  any  man  into  trouble.  I  would  be  particu- 
larly sorry  to  trouble  Lancelot  Leigh." 

"  I  am  his  friend.  I  am  seeking  him  in  order  to  make 
him  happy." 

"  Then  I  should  say :  Seek  him  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  San  Antonio.  I  do  not  know  for  sure  he  is 
there,  but  I  would  feel  myself  as  likely  as  not  to  come 
across  the  gentleman  in  that  direction." 

This  information  seemed  to  be  the  most  positive  yet 
received,  but  Dick  was  not  sure  whether  he  ought  to 
tell  PYancesca.  One  hope  after  another  had  proved 
false,  and  she  was  beginning  to  believe  that  she  would 
never  see  Lancelot  again.  It  appeared  to  be  a  kind  of 
cruelty  to  unsettle  the  resignation  she  was  trying  to  at- 
tain to  by  a  hope  which  might  prove  as  futile  as  all  pre- 
ceding it. 

He  did  not  even  tell  Loida,  for  he  knew  that,  sooner 
or  later,  Loida  would  reveal  all  to  Francesca.  His  busi- 
ness relations  and  necessities  had  already  frequently 
proved  a  most  elastic  and  convenient  reason  for  any 
movement  he  thought  it  best  to  make.  All  other  reasons 
Loida  and  Francesca  argued  and  modified  to  suit  their 
own  wishes ;  but  business  reasons  they  had  a  profound 
respect  for.  To  submit  to  them  was  a  necessity  of  their 
sex  and  their  fortune.  So  Dick  calmly  announced  that 
his  business  compelled  him  to  go  to  San  Antonio.  He 
said,  if  the  ladies  wished,  he  would  take  them  to  New 
Orleans  and  leave  them  there,  while  he  made  alone  the 
Texan  journey.  Or,  if  they  would  like  a  camping-out 
trip,  nothing  could  be  more  charming  in  the  spring  of  the 
year  than  a  leisurely  journey  across  the  Texan  prairies. 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG!  299 

Loida  perceived  that  Dick  wished  the  latter  course. 
She  considered  it  very  natural  he  should  do  so,  for  it 
permitted  Dick  to  have  her  with  him.  She  was  instantly 
and  warmly  in  its  favor ;  and  as  Dick  went  on  to  de- 
scribe the  arrangements  he  would  make  for  their  com- 
fort, she  became  enthusiastic. 

"Will  it  not  be  charming,  Francesca?"  she  cried. 
"  We  are  to  have  horses  when  we  wish  to  ride  and  a 
cariole  when  we  wish  to  take  a  rest.  Think  of  it! 
Riding  through  miles  and  miles  of  flowers  and  waving 
grass,  in  the  exhilarating  atmosphere  of  Texas,  with  its 
glorious  blue  sky  above  us!  And  Dick  will  get  an 
army  tent  and  lots  of  blankets  and  mattresses  and  a 
commissary  wagon  and  a  good  cook,  and  we  shall  have 
the  whole  State  of  Texas  for  a  bedroom  and  a  dining- 
room." 

"  I  wish  to  go  home  as  quickly  as  possible  now,  Loida. 
I  do  not  wish  to  go  to  Texas.  I  wish  to  go  to  England. 
I  am  so  tired  of  travel." 

"  How  can  you  be  tired  f  And  it  is  possible  we  may 
find  Lancelot  in  Texas.  I  should  think  after  Mexico 
his  first  thought  would  be  Texas." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  of  Lancelot.  Finding 
him  is  becoming  a  wearisome  farce,  Loida.  I  wonder 
that  I  was  ever  beguiled  by  it.  I  am  tired  of  promises 
that  always  fail". 

She  spoke  with  some  temper,  and  Loida  thought  her 
very  unjust. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  answered,  "  everything,  yes,  every- 
thing, possible  has  been  done.  Is  it  Dick's  fault  that 
Lancelot  has  hid  himself  so  well "? " 

"  I  did  not  say  it  was  any  one's  fault.     I  wish  I  was 


300  LOVE   FOR  AN  HOL'R. 

a  man!  I  wish  Clara  had  come  with  us.1  She  thinks 
of  so  many  things." 

"  I  am  sure,  Francesca,  you  are  very  ungrateful. 
Dick  has  put  himself  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  Dick." 

She  was  indifferent,  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders 
in  a  way  which  angered  Loida,  as  far  as  it  was  possible 
for  that  placid  lady  to  feel  anger.  Dick  said  nothing. 
He  was  not  in  the  least  offended  with  the  disappointed 
girl.  He  understood  better  than  Loida  did  that  she  was 
more  angry  at  her  fate  than  dissatisfied  with  him.  He 
could  feel  that  she  had  come  to  a  point  when  she  felt 
even  Lancelot's  name  to  be  an  offense.  If  people  could 
not  help  her  in  deeds,  then  words  were  as  well  unspoken. 
This  was  her  present  mood,  and  Dick  sympathized  with  it. 

So  he  said  not  a  word  of  the  fresh  hope.  He  only 
so  moved  Loida's  imagination  that  she  was  delighted  at 
the  idea  of  going  back  to  England  by  way  of  Texas, 
and  Francesca  acquiesced  in  that  spirit  which  silently 
declares  all  things  to  be  equally  indifferent.  Sometimes, 
when  Dick  saw  her  hopeless  eyes  and  listless  manner, 
he  was  tempted  to  give  her  the  encouragement  he  was 
acting  upon,  but  at  the  end  he  always  resisted  the  temp- 
tation. For  Dick  had  his  superstitions,  as  all  men  have, 
and  he  believed  that  it  is  in  silence  hope  grows  to  frui- 
tion. 

"  You  may  talk  away  the  good  fortune  of  anything 
you  purpose  to  do.  I  will  be  quiet  and  see  what  comes 
of  silence."  And  upon  this  resolve  Dick  acted. 

For  several  weeks  nothing  came  of  it.  Through  an 
earthly  paradise  they  traveled  day  after  day,  and  Fran- 
cesca was  not  able  to  resist  the  vivifying  airs  and  sun- 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG  I  301 

shine  and  the  ineffable  peace  and  glory  of  a  Texas 
spring.  In  spite  of  all  her  sorrow  she  grew  light-hearted. 
She  was  in  such  radiant  health  she  could  not,  even  if  she 
tried,  be  sorrowful.  In  the  mornings  she  and  Loida 
cantered  by  Dick's  side,  singing  together,  for  the  very 
joy  of  living.  In  the  evenings  they  spread  their  blankets 
amid  the  flowers  and  grass,  and  talked  happily  till  they 
fell  into  sweetest  slumber.  They  traveled  very  slowly, 
being  only  anxious  to  make  the  journey  last  as  long  as 
possible. 

Very  frequently  they  camped  at  night  near  some  cat- 
tleman's cabin,  or  some  camp  of  soldiers  or  rangers. 
Then  they  had  visitors,  and  the  sound  of  the  violin  or 
guitar,  and  the  hearty  chorus  of  men  singing  with  all 
their  hearts,  filled  the  great  still  places,  and  made  even 
Silence  pleased  to  listen  to  their  glad  music. 

At  length  the  delightful  journey  was  nearly  over. 
They  were  within  a  few  hours  of  San  Antonio.  To-mor- 
row they  would  become  conventional  beings  again. 
They  would  bid  the  great  sweet  heart  of  Nature  "  good- 
bye "  and  go  back  to  the  restless  life  of  men  and  women. 

This  last  night,  therefore,  they  resolved  to  taste  every 
moment  of  a  joy  so  soon  to  vanish. 

The  sun  set  as  they  finished  supper  and  sat  down  be- 
neath the  wide-spreading  live-oaks.  A  full,  golden  moon 
was  rising  to  the  zenith.  The  white  asphodels  shone  like 
stars  all  over  the  prairie.  A  mocking-bird  was  singing, 
and  stopping,  and  then  beginning  again.  A  Mexican 
lying  alone  was  singing  softly  to  a  mandolin.  Others 
were  playing  cards  ;  and  one  silent,  dark  Jarocha  from 
Vera  Cruz  was  kneeling  apart,  making  a  "  novena  "  for 
his  "dearly-beloved  angel  on  earth"  Dick  was  smoking, 


3O2  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

and  Loida  sat  beside  him,  with  her  head  against  his 
shoulder. 

Francesca's  heart  was  like  the  moon  at  full.  She  was 
thinking  of  Lancelot  as  she  had  not  lately  permitted  her- 
self to  think — with  love  and  hope — with  a  certainty  of 
seeing  him — with  a  devotion  that  she  felt  to  be  only 
strengthened  by  disappointment  and  delay.  Lately  she 
had  absolutely  forbidden  herself  to  speak  of  her  lover, 
but  as  they  sat  in  the  divine,  soul-subduing  light,  she  be- 
gan to  recall  in  a  gentle  voice  the  days  that  were  gone. 

"  They  will  come  no  more,  Loida,"  she  said  tenderly ; 
"  and  though  I  am  almost  compelled  to  think  of  Lance- 
lot as  dead,  yet  to-night  I  feel  it  a  joy  to  hope  that  he 
may  be  alive." 

"  My  dear  Francesca,  you  must  remember  those  who 
love  you  and  who  are  certainly  living.  Your  father — " 

"Ah,  Loida!  Do  not  think  you  need  to  plead  for 
my  father.  I  promised  him  when  I  returned,  if  Lance- 
lot  was  not  found,  to  be  his  good,  loving  daughter.  I 
mean  to  be  so.  It  will  give  me  pleasure  to  make  his 
pleasure." 

"  He  will  think  of  a  marriage  between  you  and  Al- 
mund — and  Almund,  I  am  sure,  desires  it." 

"  My  father  will  hold  his  little  daughter  to  no  heart- 
bargaining.  I  shall  say  to  him  frankly :  '  My  dear,  I 
cannot  love  any  one  but  Lancelot.  Living  or  dead,  I 
can  only  love  Lancelot.  Let  me  stay  near  you  alway.' 
And  I  know  he  will  answer :  '  God  love  thee,  Fran- 
cesca! God  gave  thee,  and  God  forbid  I  should  send 
thee  away.'  My  father  will  not  bend  me  either  this  way 
or  that  way.  He  can  trust  to  my  honor  and  my  affec- 
tion, as  I  can  trust  to  his." 


AND  NOW  LOVE    SANG  I  303 

"  But,  my  dear,  there  is  the  estate.  You  ought  to 
marry  for  the  house  and  the  land." 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret  that  Clara  told  me  before  I 
left.  When  I  get  home  I  may  have  a  sister — I  may 
even  have  a  brother!  Think  of  that,  and  of  my  father's 
joy!" 

Loida  did  not  answer.  She  could  not  bear  to  think, 
at  first,  of  her  niece  as  anything  less  than  Lady  of 
Atherton  Manor.  The  secret  made  a  slight  embarrass- 
ment, and  Francesca  rose  and  walked  away  into  the 
broader  moonlight.  Every  little  asphodel  had  a  super- 
natural beauty  in  it.  Angels  might  have  thought  them 
flowers  of  heaven  and  taken  them  by  handfuls.  They 
made  Francesca  remember  that  glorious  harvest  night 
when  Lancelot  gathered  the  August  lily  and  sang  her 
the  song  that  was  all  her  own  ;  and  she  set  her  feet  care- 
fully between  the  white  buds,  for  she  had  put  into  each 
a  golden  memory,  and  she  would  not  crush  it. 

Let  no  one  say  nature  has  no  voice  of  comfort.  That 
exquisite  hour  was  eloquent  of  hope.  The  asphodels 
said  to  her,  "ffe  will  come!  "  The  mocking-bird  sang, 
"He  will  come!  "  The  lover  with  the  mandolin  in  his 
hands  and  the  lover  with  the  rosary  in  his  hands  moved 
her  to  their  own  hope.  Her  heart  swelled  to  the  beam- 
ing moon,  and  whispered  her,  "He  will  come!"  A 
strong,  sweet  conviction  swept  away  all  doubt  and  fear. 
She  smiled  to  its  promise.  She  stretched  out  her  arms. 
She  whispered  to  the  secret,  sacred  intelligences  around 
her: 

"  O  my  love!      My  love!      Send  him  to  me! " 

Then  suddenly,  out  of  the  space  beyond,  there  came 
a  wonderful  voice — a  clear,  silvery  snatch  of  song — that 


304  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

was  distinct  from  all  other  sounds.  It  thrilled  the  moon- 
lit  atmosphere  as  if  it  had  been  vibrant.  It  moved 
Francesca  as  if  a  hand  had  touched  her.  She  lifted  her 
head  and  looked  all  around.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
seen,  but  the  voice  was  coming  nearer.  A  little  wood 
of  pecan-trees  was  to  the  right ;  she  turned  to  it,  and  as 
she  did  so  a  horseman  came  from  out  its  shadow.  He 
stood  still  in  the  broad  moonshine ;  he  lifted  his  hat,  and 
let  the  cool  gulf-wind  stir  his  hair,  and  as  he  sat  motion- 
less, looking  to  the  horizon,  he  sang : 

"  '  Then  it  would  not  seem  miles 
Out  to  the  emerald  isles ; 
I  should  be  there  as  soon 
As  the  white  birds  at  noon  ; 
Blue  night  and  golden  moon 
Rising  o'er  me.'1  " 

As  she  listened  her  soul  cried  out  with  wonder  and 
joy.  If  this  was  not  Lancelot,  then  she  had  never  loved 
him.  No  voice  but  Lancelot's  could  make  her  heart  so 
beat  and  tremble  with  rapture.  She  was  impelled  by 
the  spirit  of  love  within  her.  Forward,  into  the  broad, 
white  moonshine,  she  passed  swiftly  as  a  bird,  and  sing- 
ing as  she  had  never  sung  before.  Her  hands  were  out- 
spread, her  face  was  uplifted,  and  the  melodious  words 
left  her  lips  as  if  each  word  cried :  "Lancelot !  " 

"  '  Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it? '  " 

The  horse  leaped  forward,  then  it  was  instantly  still ; 
his  rider  was  intently  listening.  And  Francesca  went 
steadily  toward  him,  singing  as  she  went. 

"  It  was  Francesca!      It  was  impossible!      He  must 


AND  NOW  LOVE   SANG/  305 

see  her!  He  must  fly!"  Such  thoughts  went  like  fire 
through  his  brain  and  heart.  "What  should  he  do? 
What  should  he  do  ?  " 

Oh,  what  use  to  ask  himself  ?  He  could  see  her  face! 
He  could  hear  her!  Feel  her!  She  came  closer!  He 
ran  with  outstretched  arms  to  meet  her.  The  song  was 
silenced  against  his  beating  heart.  He  kissed  its  melody 
off  her  lips.  For  very  rapture  they  could  not  say  each 
other's  names.  They  were  weeping  for  purest  joy. 
And  all  over  them  the  moonshine  fell  like  a  silvery  cloud, 
and  all  around  them  the  soft  winds  blew  the  scents  of 
flowers  and  the  low  sounds  of  love ;  and  they  were  held 
some  moments  in  a  speechless  trance — an  elysium  of 
supernal  joy.  It  was  in  broken  words  of  infinite  tender- 
ness they  began  at  length  to  speak : 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you,  dearest ! " 

" I  was  looking  for  you,  beloved!" 

" *  Francesco.!  " 

"Lancelot!  " 

"Oh,  Heaven!" 

"Oh,  love!      Oh,  joy!" 

Then  Loida,  in  the  shadow  of  her  tent,  grew  restless, 
and  she  said : 

"  Where  is  Francesca  ?  " 

And  Dick  rose  and  looked  into  the  moonshine,  and 
asked,  with  a  kind  of  triumph : 

"  But  who  is  with  her  ? " 

"  Dick,  it  is  Lancelot !      Lancelot  at  last ! " 

And  earth  must  coin  the  words  of  heaven  to  tell  the 
heartful  exaltation  of  the  hours  that  followed.  Who 
thought  of  sleep  ?  Who  dreamed  that  morning  could 
ever  come  ?  Transported,  ravished  with  perfect  love— 


306  LOVE  FOR  AN  HOUR. 

with  sorrow  turned  into  perfect  joy — with  doubt  turned 
into  ecstasy — they  watched  the  dawn  come  up  the  east, 
while  they  were  still  telling  each  other  how  they  had 
loved — how  they  had  trusted  and  never  faltered,  because 
they  knew  right  well — 

*'  Though  Fate  may  part, 
And  seas  may  sever, 
Love  for  an  hour 
Is  love  forever  I  " 

THE   END. 


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